


Fallen and Faced

by violenteer



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: AU: no asylum, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Slow Burn, the slowest burn you've ever seen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-10-14 18:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 25,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10541760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: Leadville's experienced five murders within the last few weeks. Miles is interested. Waylon is an accessory. The bridal shop does nightwear, too.ON OFFICIAL HIATUS.





	1. Chapter 1

Waylon felt bad about it, in the end. He’d been trying to help Miles, to return a few favors out of the hundreds he’d begged, but for some twisted reason nothing that his friend asked for ever came at an easy price.

 

He was walking down the side of a busy sidewalk when it happened.

 

A tall guy with a severe haircut and well-fitted suit ran straight into Waylon. Maybe he expected the blond to move; maybe he expected him to look. Whatever the case may have been, coffee went flying, and while Waylon wound up on the concrete with skinned wrists to show for it, Big Guy in Gray found his shirtfront absolutely drenched in espresso.

 

He made a noise as though he’d just witnessed his family being taken forcefully from him, and with betrayal to match, glared down at Waylon.

 

Stupid. Stupid, stupid. But Miles had been canvasing Mr. Gluskin for too long now to have Waylon back out of the crack-pot idea he cooked up the night before.

 

“You have to be kidding me.” Gluskin said in a vaguely monotonous voice.

 

Waylon looked up and widened his eyes in apology and fear.

 

“Shit! Shit, I am so sorry, sir.” he began, hating himself for all of it.

 

Miles designed the general script. He only asked that Waylon go along.

 

Gluskin moved his head as if to expect more from Waylon, and without missing a beat, the tech student continued.

 

“I’m so clumsy. Fuck, I completely lost track of where I was going, and… god. I’m sorry.”

 

He grunted, pulling himself up off the ground and dusting the back of his pants off absently.

 

Gluskin still looked irritated, but there was now some sort of bemusement sprinkled in. Like maybe he was being shown something he hadn’t known he was looking for until it was in front of him. Like maybe Waylon was a good thing, and not a stupid thing.

 

In his head, Waylon was thinking about how much he loathed this plan. Outwardly, he was still wringing his bleeding hands.

 

“What can I do to make it up to you, mister…?” he trailed, his eyes going from Gluskin’s eyes to his chest and back.

 

He was as toned as Miles said, pectorals straining against the once clean, white fabric of his shirt. Damn him.

 

“Gluskin. Eddie,” he paused, reproachful of himself, it seemed. “It’s… fine. Are you alright?”

 

Waylon heard warning bells go off in his head. Miles had tried a run-in just like this on Gluskin, and the turnout had been a whole lot more terse. He’d cursed, called Miles a moron, threatened to make him pay for damages. It was embarrassingly painful to watch. And now, in contrast, Gluskin was sympathetic. Almost forgiving.

 

Where the tech’s eyes had been following Eddie’s gaze and shirt, Eddie was looking at all of Waylon. At his face, at his hands. At his chest, and lower.

 

“Success!” Miles crowed triumphantly in his ear. “We have an in.”

 

“Fuck off.” Waylon whispered.  
  
“Pardon?” Gluskin asked, looking somewhat suspicious.

 

“I’m off! Off my rocker. Haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately. I’m okay. This,” he held up his hands, and to his credit, they bled steadily down his arms, “is nothing.”

 

Miles snickered into his ear, probably judging him. Definitely judging him if the kissing noises and nurse Ratchet impression were any indication.

 

“You need bandages. To be cleaned up.” Eddie disagreed.

 

His eyes had a weird spark in them looking at Waylon’s blood. But if half the stuff Miles dug up was true about this dude… it was par for the fucking course.

 

“God, I don’t really know where to…” he trailed.

 

Like the damsel he had to make himself out to be, he trailed off mid-sentence. As if his brain had gone on an abrupt vacation.

 

Waylon looked around them both feigning as though he was searching for a good place to find medical attention. If Eddie wouldn’t assist him, which it would only make sense to assume considering their meeting, then had to look as though he would follow the other’s direction anyway.  

 

“I have a shop not far. Please. I insist.” Gluskin said, after a fraught moment of what Waylon could only imagine was excited deliberation.

 

_Fuck._

 

“Uh, you don’t mind?” Waylon asked, glancing back to his meet-cute companion.

 

“On the contrary; I’d feel awful otherwise. It’s only a block away, and besides, what kind of person would I be if I left you like this?” he countered in a crossly protective fashion.

 

Again, Waylon caught Eddie sizing him up. He wanted to cringe against that much attention, but a small part of himself kind of appreciated it. Lisa hadn’t been able to look at him like that for months. And when their relationship finally finished circling the drain, she’d confessed that she fell out of love with Waylon a long time ago.

 

Although he didn’t want the attention of a suspected serial killer, all the same. To be noticed… and to be reacted to like this by someone like Eddie….

 

Waylon stopped thinking.

 

“Okay. If you really don’t mind.” he said, a flush coming out in his face.

 

Eddie grinned and shook his head.

 

“Not at all…”

 

“Waylon.”

 

“Waylon. I wouldn’t mind at all. Follow me, please.”

 

It was really happening. Waylon tapped at his temple twice in order to let Miles know that he felt anxious.

 

Eddie was already starting to guide him back toward his shop, a bridal place that had been alarmingly busy over the last couple weeks. Or so Miles had deduced.

 

“You’re doing fine, man. He’s in. Hook, line, sinker, all that shit. I can’t believe you had it in you.”

 

Waylon tapped at his temple again insistently.

 

_Help._

 

“I’m right here, dude. We thought all of it through, remember? You’re the bait. I’m the switch. As long as you get his attention away from his basement, or wherever the fuck he’s hiding the bodies, I can sneak in without a hitch and get down to business. Uh… just… don’t give him too many ideas.”

 

“We’ll apply pressure to those wounds soon enough.” Eddie called from several feet ahead, confidently leading them both.

 

Waylon tapped again.

 

_This is stupid. And really dangerous._

 

Miles couldn’t have possibly known what Waylon meant by any of what came across as small vibrations on his end, but he still laughed and laughed just like he had last night when Waylon said something similar.

 

“Thank god,” Waylon responded belatedly, catching up and then falling into step with the tailor.

 

Eddie looked down and grinned.

 

Miles wolf-whistled.

 

Waylon was fucked for sure.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prelude to entering. Somewhere within breaking.

Although it seemed like at least an hour before they’d actually gotten to Eddie’s shop, the tailor was right. It was right down the block, and once they were inside, Waylon realized that they both would be fine after they left. The place was filled to the brim with eveningwear. There were sleek dresses in countless variations of dark color palettes with suits to match. Dress shirts, socks, ties, corsets, stockings – everything. Gluskin had everything accounted for.

 

He’d get back to looking clean cut in no time.

 

“Wow.” Waylon said, reaching out like he was going to touch one of the gowns.

 

It was a wispy thing colored crimson. Must have matched his –

 

“Mind your wrists.” Eddie said, hand darting out to catch Waylon before he ruined what was probably an expensive piece.

 

“Shit,” Waylon said in realization. “Sorry.”

 

Eddie smiled in amusement before disappearing behind a camouflaged door.

 

“Nothing happened.” he called in response.

 

Miles was strangely silent during all of it. Although Waylon would never freely admit to wanting to hear his friend’s constant stream of comments, he felt more weighed down when there was quiet than when there wasn’t. And with Miles, the difference between those two were like night and day, because he tended never to shut up.

 

Waylon wanted to tap his forehead again, but Eddie had come back. The point was moot. If Waylon acted in any way beside ordinary, Miles warned, he could expect this plan to go belly-up. From what he’d read, the tailor was objectively temperamental with more than one public accusation to vouch for it.

 

So, instead, he stood in what felt like the middle of the first floor, his hands held slightly away from himself, careful to watch that no blood fell to the floor, or to an article of clothing. It wasn’t all that difficult, but it did mean that Waylon sort of lost track of the conversation.

 

“Medical kit in a store like this, huh? You get a lot of walking wounded?” Waylon asked, aiming for playful.

 

Eddie’s eyes flashed in defense – yikes – before his expression eased into one of interest.

 

“Only when I’ve come from brunch, it seems.” he answered in what might have been cryptic, had Waylon not known the first guy to meet him like this.

 

Miles snorted in his ears, and for that reason alone, Waylon relaxed a little.

 

“I’m really gonna have to make that up to you. I hope you’re not… are you burned? God. That didn’t even cross my mind….” Waylon stuttered.

 

Although all of it was an act, the last part was real. Waylon didn’t want this guy hurt, no matter what Miles had it in his mind he was guilty of.

 

He was a born pacifist, incapable of being responsible for any real bodily harm, and burns were real enough to get his anxiety spiking all the more.

 

Gluskin tutted and shook his head. “Who’s the patient, here?”

 

Waylon smiled despite what that question implied, and bowed in what could have been embarrassment if he wasn’t actively going for that. Between himself and Miles, Miles had always been the better actor. From high school, to college, to now, as they were struggling their way through being adults. It was a shame Gluskin had a type. Miles would have been able to play this part perfectly, whereas Waylon knew he was bound to fail sooner or later.

 

“So, uh, you own this place?” He asked.

 

He had to get the conversation back on track.

 

Gluskin looked around them both before smiling gently and nodding. His hands, which were kind of huge, worked at unwinding a thick roll of gauze and laying out antiseptic on a small table just beside them that matched a loveseat perfectly.

 

Serial killer or not, the guy had style.

 

“It’s been in my family since I was a child.” Gluskin supplied.

 

He’d moved ever closer to Waylon, and now his chest was maybe half a foot from Waylon’s face. He towered, covered the light above his head. Waylon knew it would be a problem if he wanted to work with light in front instead of behind, but he waited on the other to command their movement.

 

And command, he did. With a handsome sweep of his arm, he offered the loveseat to Waylon, and then knelt himself so that there were no shadows playing against him.

 

Gluskin put a towel down in Waylon’s lap and then looked up.

 

“The peroxide may sting.” He warned, his hand twitching up and then stopping.  

 

Where would he have put that hand? To Waylon? To his face? He had no idea. He hoped not. That would _really_ get Miles going.

 

“The peroxide may sting, beloved!” The man himself called in imitation of Gluskin’s voice.

 

Waylon had to choke back a startled laugh.

 

Gluskin misread it as fear, he must have, because he’d put the peroxide down in favor of placing either of his world-holding hands on the loveseat, effectively bracketing Waylon.

 

“It’ll be over soon, darling.” The tailor assured, brows drawn down and lips curved up.

 

 _Interesting guy_ , Waylon thought. _Little sinister_.

 

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I know. I still feel bad… is all.” He started.

 

“Shit.” Miles breathed.

 

Waylon couldn’t resist. He put a finger to his temple and tapped wonderingly.

 

“The pet name.” His friend supplied, sounding much less enthusiastic.

 

“Hold still.” Eddie murmured.

 

It was his only acknowledgement before he started pouring clear death water onto Waylon’s wounds. He started slowly at first, but as Waylon’s breath came in faster, so too did the peroxide. It was a weird connection, and definitely intentional by the way Eddie would look up periodically to smile.

 

At some point, he stopped with it. Time had become something of a foreign concept to Waylon, and whether he’d been suffering for a couple minutes or a couple hours, he had no idea. He assumed it was minutes. He wasn’t in hell, was he?

 

“You’re doing wonderfully.” Gluskin commented.

 

He was dabbing at the wounds with cotton rounds. Slowly. It had to have been slowly.

 

“Had no idea how much that stuff stung.” Waylon breathed, emphasizing the shallowness of it in the way he spoke.

 

It was the right thing to do. Gluskin’s eyes closed over and he hummed.

 

“The pain doesn’t last long. And now,” he opened his eyes to find the antiseptic, started spreading that on generously, “it should be over.”

 

Miles made a weird noise over the line. Waylon would have prompted him, but he didn’t need it. He started talking almost immediately after, sounding completely unsure of what they’d had in mind just last night.

 

“This _should_ be over, Way. I think you need to get out.” He muttered.

 

“Hm?” Waylon hummed.

 

Casual. Calm. Normal. _What the fuck?_

 

“I think I made a mistake, man. Did you see how the front of the place was set up? It’s like, a death trap. Why does he have that kit? Why’s he so familiar with it? I don’t know. Something’s really going on.”

 

Waylon’s heart started to pick up. He clenched his jaw and repositioned himself on the love seat. The last thing he needed right now was for his confidence to lose confidence. And Miles was his confidence. Every bit of it.

 

“So I’m free to go?” He asked, smiling lightly again.

 

Following along with both men.

 

Eddie finished wrapping the gauze around Waylon’s wounds, then. He’d taken care not to leave any room in the winding. It was all very tight.

 

Cocking his head, he stood up from where he’d been perched. He looked like the Eiffel tower. Like the Empire State Building. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Eddie Gluskin looked big.

 

“Free to go?” He asked in a much deeper tone. “No.”

 

Waylon could hardly see the whites of the other’s eyes. He was cast in so much darkness.

 

 “No. I don’t think so.”


	3. Chapter 3

Another thing Waylon couldn’t help but feel about the whole case was tenderness. He may have come in on a misguided word from his friend, but it wasn’t what kept him in the end. He’d spent so much time overthinking what he would do, what he would say, how he would act. Waylon forgot that one of the best parts about being Miles’s friend was that his job left a lot of room for antics. And Waylon was an antic magnet.

 

“Shit shit shit.” Miles was whispering over the line. “Can you fight?”

 

Waylon’s eyes popped. Fight? Not at all. He wasn’t weak, but where violence was concerned, he had absolutely no willpower.

 

Even if he did, though, something (Gluskin’s sheer muscle mass) told him that he wouldn’t win. Wouldn’t even be able to distract Gluskin long enough to figure out where that front door was.

 

“No?” Waylon said, answering both men for the second time.

 

Eddie moved toward Waylon, his long fingers reaching for… for….

 

“Not until you’ve made it up to me. Help me choose another shirt, Waylon?”

 

Waylon felt the tension drain from each individual part of his body as if it was being syphoned by the atmosphere itself. He wanted to curse himself for being so horrified so incredibly quick. Doubly, he made sure to go in on Miles the second they saw each other again. He was the seasoned investigative journalist, wasn’t he? Fuck.

 

“Another shirt,” he began, “sure.”

 

When he finally took Eddie’s hand Waylon felt like some sort of damsel. He was pulled upright with what must have been little or no effort from the tailor. His coffee-stained shirt was still wet, so with each move he made, Waylon could distantly make out hardened and protruding muscles working against the fabric. It was like watching the mechanizations of a computer for the first time when Waylon was a kid; fucking fascinating.

 

They were both on their feet, now. Eddie was still oddly close. For the barest of seconds, he kept it that way. And when Waylon finally mustered the courage to ask where they were going he was met with a sudden desire to keep his mouth shut.

 

Eddie’s eyes were an almost glowing cerulean blue. They looked as though they were made from an ocean lit by the moon. It was… disorienting to say the least.

 

“Where? Uh, where in the store do you keep extras?” Waylon gulped.

 

“On the racks.” Eddie deadpanned.

 

Waylon wanted to question that. After a moment, he did.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean,” Eddie slipped off his suitcoat, laid that out on the loveseat, and then slowly worked at unclasping each and every one of his shirt’s buttons with familiar ease. “on the racks.”

 

He said something else after that. Waylon knew Eddie’d spoken again, but he got lost in thought and in what was quickly becoming a show in his mind. With each button that opened, more beautifully sculpted tan skin was revealed. Waylon had to bite the inside of his cheeks up until and after Gluskin was finished.

 

“You’re really straying from the plan.” Miles interjected miserably.

 

Waylon scratched the back of his head with enough force to convey a message back. Something like, _you brought me here._ Or, _are you seeing that shoulder-to-waist ratio? Give me a break._

“You mean the clothing racks. Around us. Like this one,” Waylon pointed toward dark blue shirts.

 

Eddie grimaced and shook his head. “Not that one. Or, not that color. But yes.”

 

Waylon smiled a little. His fashion taste definitely wasn’t the worst; he’d seen the worst when Miles was running on negative sleep. He was, however, inept when it came to color combination and general rule. Waylon never saw himself caring about it, and a result… never cared about it. But Eddie did care; it was his life’s work And right now, it seemed as though he was testing Waylon. _How smart was the man who made me wear coffee? Did he have better ideas in mind?_

 

No. The easy answer was no. He’d still try to entertain Gluskin, though.

 

“Well,” Waylon walked away from Eddie and toward a small, brightly-colored section. “I guess it depends on what you want your outfit to say.”

 

He pulled out a bright salmon dress shirt with short sleeves and raised his eyebrows.

 

Gluskin’s face was unreadable with can lights behind him at this distance, but his voice was unmistakably amused.

 

“I’m not aiming for pre-pubescence, darling.”

 

Waylon laughed, a sound just as startled as the chuckle from peroxide hell. Eddie moved forward and shook his head. He must have been laughing, too. There was a quiet rumbling sound coming from his chest, and his mouth was turned up.

 

 _Beautiful_ , Waylon thought.

 

“Kill me.” Miles muttered.

 

He was over thinking Waylon was going to die, apparently.

 

“Harsh, but message received. Let me see here,”

 

Waylon gave up the game, this time. He went straight for a clean row of white or off-white shirts that all looked extremely similar to the one Eddie had… discarded a few minutes ago. He lifted it in front of himself, a clear offering.

 

Eddie was still for a moment. He looked like a male model. Unabashedly sure of himself, awaiting stylistic instruction. His bone structure alone was giving Waylon flashbacks to VOGUE. But that was probably a bad thing to think considering how many possible victims had thought the same way and ended up missing.

 

_Business. You’re here for business. Miles’s business. Remember?_

“Better.” Gluskin commented.

 

He accepted the clothing a moment later, at which point their eye contact could not have been more loaded.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Move faster, man.” Miles interrupted.

 

It sounded like an engine was turning over on his side. Was he getting in his car already? There was that confidence, again. Or maybe fear. Whichever it was Waylon did have to move faster.

 

“Here, let me.” Waylon offered out of nowhere, propelling himself forward and working at the buttons of the new shirt.

 

Eddie made a surprised noise. He let Waylon work though. It was a slow process considering how many times Waylon intentionally got them wrong to emphasize his wounds and his nerves. Gluskin didn’t make a sound if he was irritated by it, and the same was true if he was interested. The tailor kept his cards close to his broad chest.

 

When Waylon was on the second to last button Eddie stopped him.

 

 _Shit_. What did that mean?

 

The blond looked up through his lashes slowly to find Eddie in a state of awe. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes glued to Waylon.

 

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asked.

 

He sounded far away.

 

Waylon shook his head, but Eddie wasn’t done speaking.

 

“Maybe in a past life,” he whispered, cupping Waylon’s face with a steady, warm hand.

 

Damn.

 

This was where he expected their run-in to end. Waylon imagined it going exactly like this. Even through Miles’s doubts. But what he _didn’t_ expect was to want it to end there. Or, hell, maybe even continue from there. His mind had become a small-scale riot. Gluskin was a bad guy. He seemed like a bad guy. He acted like a bad guy. Had the height, weight, and gait of a bad guy. But he was… Waylon didn’t know. There was something that didn’t add up.

 

Miles was always sure of himself to the point of self-idolatry. And Waylon, in all his time spent having to go out on a limb with Miles, had never doubted that. But now, he kind of did.

 

“Maybe.” Waylon agreed.

 

He angled his face up so that they were looking directly at each other. So that there would be no question that he wanted whatever was about to happen, too.

 

Gluskin leaned down slowly and surely, his intensity alone making Waylon feel as though they truly had met before.

 

Suddenly, a loud dropping noise sounded from up above them. It was followed by another clatter, and then silence.

 

Waylon went extremely still. Eddie looked up above them both, panic rising to meet his lust in an instant. 

 

Maybe Eddie was right. Maybe they had met and been together in a past life. But Waylon was pretty sure that idiot version of himself ended up dead.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re a weird son of a bitch, Waylon Park.”

 

That was the first thing he’d heard when he got to Miles’s hotel room.

 

“Nothing you didn’t already know.” He said from the front hall.

 

There was a storm brewing in Colorado, and after he’d finished speaking a powerful lightning strike had rippled through the air and sent shocks of noise throughout the area, accenting Waylon perfectly. He figured it was just as well, considering the monster he turned into that day. Memories of Gluskin’s lips inches from his were still replaying in his mind on a loop that wouldn’t quit. Pink, fulll, close. Then in an instant, thin. Far. Shadowed.

 

“You have to go.” Gluskin had muttered, his voice hard and defensive.

 

He’d hurried Waylon through the shop; there was never need for the man to wonder how he’d get out alive. Gluskin couldn’t have forced him out of his company fast enough. Waylon would have been upset. But at the time, he was too busy thanking his lucky stars and giving Gluskin his number in a fit of last-minute acting.

 

“Call me!” He’d exclaimed.

 

The bridal shop’s door closed and locked, and that was the end. Not even enough time for Miles to come and scope.

 

Funnily enough, they met up in the same parking lot a block down from all the excitement. Waylon promised Miles they would see each other again, and he’d give him a full run down if there was anything the reporter hadn’t caught on either the wire or the discreet camera he’d installed in one of Waylon’s shirt pockets. Waylon promised they’d come to more conclusions that would paint Eddie Gluskin into a murderous corner.

 

Of course, he wouldn’t lie to his oldest friend. Waylon was there, wasn’t he?

 

But it took a little time for him to clear his mind of… everything. And even the aimless drive through Leadville had left the programmer at odds. There were questions he wound up with – ones that Miles wouldn’t want to answer, or to even hear posed.

 

Why was Gluskin oddly sad when he mentioned his family? Why was he alone in the world? Was there a reason why he’d hated Miles and liked Waylon beyond pure physicality? The bridal shop had seemed full of life, but the moment Gluskin’d heard sound, the color and amusement of what they’d been doing had gone from him. Like a specter, he stood. Like a specter, he’d escorted Waylon out.

 

None of it made sense. Waylon knew that he was meant to be the bait and nothing more. Initially, it’s what he wanted. He was no reporter; his mind didn’t work in the way of argument. Rather, he thought in data collection, in binary. There were always two options to begin with, and whichever was chosen would invariably lead to yet another fork in the road.

 

But Eddie’s forks weren’t always black or white. Not like Miles had explained.

 

It could have been useless, but Waylon had the feeling these questions wouldn’t give up or go from him any time soon.

 

Waylon held another cup of coffee, and from his position next to the king-sized bed which Miles was sitting on with his computer in his lap and his legs neatly crossed, it only seemed logical to give what he didn’t really need.

 

Miles was the coffee drinker, anyway. Waylon preferred tea.

 

“Mission debrief time, Way.” He announced, looking up with sparks in his eyes. “Take a seat.”

 

“This should be interesting.” Waylon commented.

 

He watched Miles take an absent sip of the coffee and nod furiously.

 

“We learned a lot. Like, a lot. I don’t know how much you were keeping track of, or if you were planning your wedding, but I got a lot more evidence than I thought you’d be able to get on the first try. Good job there, by the way. Way to jump out of the frying pan and all that shit.”

 

Waylon swallowed and blinked very deliberately.

 

“Go on, Miles.” He encouraged.

 

Miles grinned.

 

From there, it was all semantics. There were at least twenty ‘allegedly’s, and thirty ‘suspected’s. Gluskin’s shop was apparently ‘demonically designed’, with two trap doors that were conveniently lined in the same wallpaper as the rest of the place to keep them hidden. Waylon had walked down into the sunken part of the shop, and even that had seemed eerie to Miles. He’d considered the rest of the shops and restaurants that lined the street. He’d gone in them, reviewed them. Each place had suggested similar work; open floor plans, minimal inlaid decoration, and no second floor. Constrastively, Gluskin’s place was almost too hard to navigate.

 

If Waylon wasn’t being guided by the suspected killer himself, Miles mused, there would be no telling where he’d wound up.

 

While Waylon could have agreed that the architecture was a little outlandish, these accusations were clear warnings of Miles and his internal ruling. Gluskin was guilty.

 

“We can go back and forth all day, man, but the fact remains that his history’s darker than professor Walker’s humor, and his rap sheet’s too long to be overlooked.”

 

“He didn’t do anything, though. It doesn’t make sense. I was there alone. I was willing. I dressed him, for god’s sake.” Waylon argued.

 

“In broad daylight. That’s right.” Miles followed up. “Each of the women and men that have gone missing in the past couple weeks were all known to have had dinner dates in the city. Dinner dates. Night time.”

 

“What was the noise upstairs?”

 

“What was he doing at a mental asylum for five months out of his life?”

 

Waylon opened his mouth to refute that, but he couldn’t.

 

“You don’t know, either.” He said instead.

 

“No, no I don’t. Not yet,” Miles agreed. “But my source is supposed to be picking up the phone and dialing soon.”

 

Waylon looked around his hotel room a minute. He swiveled in the office chair that matched the office desk, careful not to smack against the set of drawers behind him.

 

“I’m not doubting you.” He murmured.

 

“You are.” Miles corrected.

 

Waylon made a face. “Okay, maybe I am. But there’s gotta be some plausible deniability in your head.”

 

Miles considered that. He seemed to be without energy, without anything to say beside ‘yes’. Waylon raised his eyebrows questioningly.

 

“I have,” he said, shutting his eyes and lifting his pointer finger to signify a count, “four eye witness reports of suspicious activity going on _at_ or _around_ Gluskin’s shop. I have confirmation that each missing person went into his shop, made a transaction. I have a criminal record, psychiatric instability, and right now, a possible victim right in front of me.”

 

At the magic number five, Miles’s eyes popped open and he smiled, nearly sadly, at Waylon.

 

“I’m sorry. I don’t have plausible deniability. Unless this guy has a doppelganger, it’s looking like he’s… at fault.”

 

Waylon licked his lips. He would’ve been offended that Miles just called him a victim had he not known that in the end, he needed the reality check. Even if Eddie deserved more of a shot than Miles was giving him, it was stupid of Waylon to think he could employ his friend into that state of mind without evidence.

 

Evidence spoke louder than any gut feeling or hesitation.

 

“You’re scared of him.” Waylon said, departing from their argument for the moment.

 

“He did threaten to sue me.” Miles leveled.

 

He was still busy typing away at his computer. Odds were he’d be like that for the next few hours and then, with any luck, Miles’d pass out and be ready for the next day.

 

“We’ll figure more shit out tomorrow.” Were Waylon’s parting words. 

 

He was already getting up and zipping his coat against what would be a very brisk walk to his car. When he was almost outside, Waylon caught Miles’s own version of a goodbye.

 

"We'll nail his ass."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kindly beta'd by an angel, spaceowl.

Waylon felt his feet drag as he entered his own hotel room a few streets down from Miles. His phone had been ringing as he was driving, but it was probably odd theories that Miles wanted to run past him. Since they’d first met, Miles had been a quad-texter. Or, if he could, he would get Waylon on the phone and talk his ears off for as long as either of them were present and lucid enough to hear. Funnily enough, it was usually Miles who lost his marbles, and not Waylon.

 

That alone should have featured on its own episode of Unsolved Mysteries since Waylon had no idea what was going on until he was being chased off private property at shotgun-point a considerable amount of the time.

 

Waylon had gotten soaked from head to toe by the storm that was still steadily raging outside. His clothes clung to him like wet paper to a desk -- ceaseless and aggravating. As he reached the bathroom, Waylon began to shed each article individually, at a painstakingly slow pace. He would have gotten himself annoyed if he went too fast.

 

When Waylon reached his shirt, he felt a strange pang of something, maybe longing, over what happened earlier. He was reenacting Eddie’s strip, only now without the audience. There was only the complimentary shampoo, conditioner, and soap to watch him. And Waylon wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about that fact.

 

He knew that Miles was investigating Eddie Gluskin for dangerous and very extreme crimes, but the illogical, primal part of him that hadn’t gotten laid in well over a year didn’t find itself in a position to mind. Waylon stared himself down in the mirror. He set his hands on the granite counter and dared himself to flinch over the implications of his very sudden and possibly grave attraction to Gluskin.

 

After three minutes, he gave up. If he didn’t have shame then, there was a good chance he wouldn’t in five seconds. 

 

Waylon almost forgot about his phone and how it was still stuffed in one of the pockets of his pants when it started ringing again. He furrowed his brow. Whatever Miles was thinking of, it had to be good to have him this dogged.

 

Without looking at the caller ID – where was the point – Waylon answered what had to be the fifth call.

 

“Remember our conversation about talking tomorrow?” he asked, pulling his underwear down over his thighs, past his ankles, and to the corner of the bathroom floor.

 

“Waylon?” A voice that was notably not Miles’ asked.

 

“Speaking,” he answered slowly, his eyes squinted in concentration.

 

Was this...?

 

“It’s Eddie Gluskin. You gave me this number, asked me to call,” he clarified.

 

Waylon felt like an idiot, like he was moving in slow motion for unfathomable reasons. _Eddie!_ He remembered Waylon’s phone number long enough to jot it down, and now they were talking. While he was buck nude and the shower was running nice and hot.

 

Through the fog, Waylon thought he saw himself blushing. He decided to look lower. Back at the miniature toiletries.

 

“I did. I remember. Hi!” Waylon squeaked, throwing on his submissive exterior once more. “I didn’t know if you were going to call.”

 

Eddie seemed hesitant to address how he’d rushed Waylon out of his shop for a moment, opting instead for thoughtful silence. Waylon could deal with silence. His phone was waterproof, so as soon as he could tear his gaze away from the fixations he’d created in a fit of cowardice he hopped into the shower and started handling the shampoo.

 

“Are you busy?” he asked.

 

“Me? No. Just warming up. It got cold and wet fast,” Waylon assured.

 

Whether he was exploring his own feelings, or if he was acting on Miles’s behalf, there was no way that Waylon could be anything apart from available. If he missed anything at this point, he would find it hard to forgive himself. Both Miles and Eddie deserved better from him. It was an altogether precarious mindset to adopt. Yet, he couldn’t escape it.

 

“Your leaving was a good thing after all. You would have been caught,” Eddie said.

 

Waylon tried to work shampoo into his blond hair with one hand. It had grown shaggy in the year since Lisa left him. Up until a few months ago, Waylon could have tied the stuff up in a bun and been on his way. But it was too on trend for him, so he personally sheered the excess off. He felt weird thinking of that version of himself, then. Like he was thinking of a friend instead.

 

“I don’t know if it was good. It kind of… it kind of felt like we were in the middle of something?” Waylon tilted the sentence up at the end.

 

He made sure to put a hopeful smile in his voice, though in reality, he was fighting the urge to cry. Somehow, shampoo had dripped down into his eyes.

 

Without missing a beat, Eddie said, “We were. That’s why I was calling. I wanted to know if you would join me, sometime. For dinner.”

 

Waylon’s eyes felt as though they’d popped out of their sockets. Dinner! Dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner! If he’d had a wire or a tap or some sort of feedback line hooked up to Miles, he was sure his friend would be threatening to burst at the seams. Waylon had done it. He’d become one of _them_ in less than twenty-four hours, and what was worse, he was glad of it.

 

Eddie Gluskin was a hard person to catch at a good time, but for some impossible reason, everything Waylon had done added up to a best-case scenario situation.

 

“Are you there, darling?” Gluskin asked after what had to have been a minute or two of silence and interesting respiratory habits.

 

“Yeah!” Waylon startled, earning him an instant sigh from the other end of the line.

 

With conditioner running down the left side of his face in a wholly disappointing (but not surprising) fashion, Waylon said, “I would love that.”

 

He pressed in all the feelings he shouldn’t have had, and all the feelings he was averse to make up. Waylon sounded positively smitten. And Gluskin responded in kind, almost cooing over the line about the time and the place. It all went over like in a mainstream romance movie; perfectly. There was no awkwardness, no strange pauses when either party was trying to figure out where the other was in their own mind.

 

Eddie lead, and Waylon followed. Easy.

 

“I’ll see you then,” was the last thing Eddie had said before hanging up.

 

Waylon smirked as the line clicked from alive to dead.

 

That was fast.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Should not be up right now.

“Maybe I wasn’t so clear yesterday, but I have a lot of info telling me this guy’s a killer, Way. Killer. Stab. Dead. Five people.” Miles said over the phone.

 

Waylon huffed, subconsciously speeding up on his walk back to Gluskin’s shop. He didn’t think Miles was the type to sneak up on people, but all the same, he wasn’t looking to be apprehended mid-poor decision. He did know it was a poor decision, after all. That counted for something. Surely.

 

“Allegedly,” Waylon replied.

 

“Ha! Remember us meeting in the morning? That was an alleged plan.” He retorted, slurping down coffee from a packet on the other end of the line.

 

Waylon could almost see his friend shiver in displeasure. Hotel coffee was never strong enough for Miles. In his head, Waylon pondered if it was healthy that he knew everything Miles would do, regardless of if they were in each other’s company. He wondered if it was healthy that they could be a thousand miles away and in the same room simultaneously.

 

“Earth to Park,” Miles was repeating.

 

“Earth to investigation!” Waylon responded.

 

He could see the bridal shop from where he was on the sidewalk. It wouldn’t take him more than two minutes to reach.

 

“Listen, I’m being careful. I’m the bait. You said that on the first night, I’m the bait. Let me be the bait, right? I’m not an idiot. But if he is the only real suspect, we gotta make sure he’s guilty.” Waylon reasoned.

 

“You should wait for my contact. What if he killed people at ‘Massive?”

 

“What if I hung up right now?” Waylon asked, and promptly ended their call.

 

He felt bad doing it, but there was no more time. He was standing in front of the shop that stood out like a sore thumb, and from one of the few windows that wasn’t stained in hues of red and blue, Waylon could see the outline of a tall man in a dark suit. Eddie.

 

His heart sped up as he crossed the threshold into a dimly lit oasis-for-the-debutant. Waylon walked until he felt as though he was where he’d been the day before. He had a strange feeling that he should have run into Eddie by now, but seeing as how he hadn’t, he figured he’d take an actual look around. If not for his own curiosity, then For Miles’.

 

There was wood paneling all throughout the place; it was dark and heavy, and if Waylon squinted, he could make out the stained-glass windows he’d found in his earlier footage of the place. They were inlaid every two or three feet after nothing but darkness, but in truth, the light they gave was hardly more than that of a nightlight. Waylon felt no more or less comforted by them; he only knew that they were breathtakingly beautiful.

 

The floors in Gluskin’s shop were heavy too, though now that Waylon was inspecting them, not all were made of wood. There was dark red carpeting in sections that led to other places, like dressing rooms or… wherever else the extra doors might have led. It was thick, and as Waylon walked, it clicked into place how Gluskin had made so little noise. He might have been intentionally walking on the carpeted part of his store. To frighten or fascinate Waylon, he couldn’t tell. It could have been an odd combination of both. Or, maybe Gluskin himself had grown used to walking in certain ways.

 

It _was_ his place.

 

Toward the very back, Waylon was finding a slightly raised section where one would check out, and off to the side was a door with a pane of glass fitted into it. Waylon was about to walk toward it when he saw Gluskin out of the corner of his eye.

 

Spinning on his heal, Waylon flashed an embarrassed smile and ruffled his hair nervously. He felt as though he’d been caught in the act, although Gluskin couldn’t have possibly known why he was interested in whatever that room could have been.

 

Maybe it was his intensity that brought Waylon back to his youth; maybe that’s why he felt no more powerful than a kid on the verge of cleverness.

 

“You’re here…” Gluskin began. “Again.”

 

Waylon swallowed and nodded. _Shit!_ That was weird, wasn’t it? But he’d hardly gotten any answers from the day before, and if their dinner was always meant to go South, he needed to take some stock of what he was getting himself into. 

 

“I am. Hi, sorry I didn’t call in advance.” Waylon said, his voice already weaker.

 

Whether it was part of his act or whether it was truth, he couldn’t tell. It felt real.

 

Gluskin walked forward into a glance of soft light. Waylon bit his lip. He knew it reduced him to feel the way he did toward Eddie. Maybe that was part of the reason he didn’t keep himself from it.

 

All the times he’d been trying for aloof or confident or in control, all the times he’d failed miserably at it. Maybe Waylon wasn’t meant to be the one who was sought after. In the end, maybe he was supposed to do the seeking. For the case, at least, he knew he had to find answers.

 

“Is something wrong?” Gluskin asked, smiling politely.

 

Waylon would have found it charming if it didn’t look so forced.

 

“No! No, no. I just wanted to make sure we were still on.” He responded.

 

He stepped a little closer, too; why the hell not, right?

 

Gluskin quirked an eyebrow, but was otherwise motionless. In comparison to the person he’d been on the phone not twelve hours ago, this version seemed completely new. As if maybe he and Waylon were meeting for the first time.

 

“Uh, for Wednesday? Dinner, right? Maybe some dancing?” Waylon smiled a little, shifting his hips in a call to the King himself.

 

Gluskin’s mouth parted as though he was close to speaking. Then, in just the same abrupt manner, he started refolding dress shirts that lay stacked against each other, their colors all the same.

 

“I can’t see why I would go back on it,” he murmured.

 

Waylon thought for a moment before giving up their pretense and walking fully forward until there was no room left to question, or deliberate about.

 

The programmer waited for Eddie to lift his eyes before saying, “I’m really excited.”

 

The taller man smiled again, but this time it was curt. Waylon considered his eyes and thought he saw… was that red? Eddie’s sclera seemed to be soaked in a color so far removed from his usual snowy blue that it made Waylon dizzy. Where had that come from?  

 

Eddie must have noticed because he set his gaze back toward the shirts.  His jaw ticked in a sort of beat; he looked anxious.

 

“Are you – did someone else run into you since me?” he asked, reaching a hand out to frame the other’s face.

 

Eddie didn’t flinch, but the way his focus snapped back to Waylon felt just like it. Waylon tried not to mind, rubbed the pad of his thumb carefully over Eddie’s cheekbone.

 

Without words, Gluskin closed his eyes and hummed.

 

“It was a run-in with a door, actually.” He answered calmly.

 

After a moment, he took Waylon’s hand away and smiled.

 

It still seemed to stick at the corners, not quite genuine. There was a certain hysteria hiding behind his teeth; Waylon thought he might scream.

 

“I wouldn’t go back on a promise made to you, darling,” Eddie finally said.

 

Waylon blinked, feeling strangely profound. Who knew a line like that would hit as hard?

 

“No?” he asked hopefully.

 

In the back of his mind he was giving himself hell for figuring out nothing beyond the fact that there were doors that led to unknown places in a shop too dark to really see. Miles had always been the reporter; Waylon didn’t have the sense of direction. He felt himself scowl sadly.

 

Eddie lifted Waylon’s chin. For a moment, Waylon felt like he’d imagined the touch of his fingers, the guidance. But he hadn’t.

 

“No.” he assured.

 

Waylon could see the red clear as day. It coated every bit of white in Eddie’s right eye, while the left was given half of its original color, pristine ice and snow in high relief.  

 

Eddie leaned down to press the gentlest of kisses to Waylon’s forehead before straightening and backing up a few feet.

 

“I should go," Waylon said slowly. "I didn’t mean to barge in.” 

 

Eddie, in a fit of what seemed to be confusion, nodded. 

 

They both walked back to the front of the shop. Waylon felt parallels cropping up all over the place, but he didn’t choose to question them, this time. There was no use in looking for a confirmation he already possessed.

 

“Until Wednesday,” Eddie said as Waylon got back on the sidewalk.

 

He finally seemed to be wearing a genuine expression, wishing Waylon a lukewarm goodbye. Waylon furrowed his brow, trying to figure out just what it was; why it was so unexpected.

 

“Until Wednesday,” he repeated.

 

“It will be _perfect_.”

 

By the time Waylon got back to his car, he finally figured out what it was he saw in the other’s eyes. It wasn’t kindness or longing, or even confusion. As soon as Waylon had left his shop, it spread all over Eddie’s face like gauze to a clean wound.

 

Relief.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this might be the last update for a little over a week. I might be able to get in another chapter before then, but if not, you were warned!

Waylon sent Miles what he could of his trip into Gluskin’s shop the second he got in the car, his mind whirling. There were several pieces of the puzzle within this investigation that stopped fitting in, for him. The strangeness in Eddie’s demeanor from one day to the next; the briefness of his stint in psychiatric care; even the nature of the missing persons’ relationship with him, had there been any. Leadville may have been small, but it had a PD. Did they look into Gluskin? Had they already exhausted the avenue of his possible guilt?

 

Miles usually saw what others didn’t. it was a large reason why all his cases were so brilliant; there seemed to be absolutely no basis for them. Instead of following up on cold cases, or worse, doing a heightened and more invasive version of current police work, Miles focused on what would happen behind a scene. He focused on the seemingly least likely scenario.

 

Waylon shivered remembering that one case he’d worked about Murkoff, and the insane amount of shit that rained down as a direct result of his published video, audio, and literary recounts. Some of them were so jarring that not even Waylon had the strength to watch or listen to them, too caught up in the thought that his closest friend almost died searching for justice in a bottomless pit.

 

Like clockwork, Miles sent a flurry of well-meaning and somewhat pissed-off messages. Waylon sighed before unlocking his phone, his left hand wrapped around his steering wheel.

 

**Idiot M**

**Secret room? Office. It’s an office M**

**Too close to killer: memoir by Waylon Park M**

**Bloodshot eyes are new. M**

**But for a guy with a violent history…. M**

 

And finally:

 

**Call me. M**

“We have to go with your idea before the dinner,” Waylon said, before Miles could criticize him further.

 

There was a brief pause before Miles said, “Yes, man! Yes! Finally.”

 

Waylon shut his eyes and thought of Eddie’s cool gaze, his confused and sad expressions; the words he gave that seemed about as genuine as a salesman’s pitch. Even further, he thought of the redness in his eyes and the stiffness in his spine. Just yesterday, he was open and uninjured. He moved quietly and confidently, loomed rather than stood. He had a presence that was all gone just the day after. Waylon shook his head. Something was wrong.

 

“Miles, did your contact get back to you, yet?” Waylon asked.

 

He was sure he broke up some scatter-brained theory, but Miles paused and allowed it. Maybe he was too happy that Waylon was getting with the program to deny him his own personality flaws.

 

“Not yet. She says she should have the info by sundown today, though. Why? Something cooking in your fevered mind?”

 

Waylon scowled. “He was different, today. Really different.”

 

“Yes….” Miles said.

 

“Like, two different people different.” Waylon finished, waiting for Miles to interpret that correctly.

 

When he didn’t say anything, Waylon scrunched his face up, but forced himself to draw what felt like an idiotic conclusion.

 

“Maybe he has MPD or something, you know? Like, maybe he has a couple different people in his head. You don’t know why he was committed. It’s not impossible… is it?”

 

On the other end, Waylon heard Miles typing rapidly and relaxed a little. If Miles gave anything even an ounce of respect and attention, he was sure to research it as fast as he could. And Waylon knew that’s what he was doing, then.

 

In his mind, he was categorizing the differences between one Eddie Gluskin and the next. He thought of the forwardness of his physicality on day one compared to the closed-off stance he held just ten minutes ago. Waylon considered playfulness against resignation, and lust against confusion. He couldn’t have been imagining all of it; there was too much evidence to suggest otherwise.

 

“DID,” Miles commented under his breath.

 

“What?” Waylon asked.

 

He watched an older couple walk past his spot in a mostly-empty parking lot. They were hand-in-hand, their eyes pasted to the bright blue sky above. It was a sunny day in Leadville, almost no clouds to speak of.

 

“DID. MPD was reclassified in… 1992. Somewhat arbitrarily, maybe… still looking.”

 

Waylon smiled a little. Okay, they were both on the same track.

 

“You think a mood change – hm. Did he respond to his name?” Miles asked, and then made a tsking noise. “You didn’t say it.”

 

Waylon shook his head, and he knew that Miles took his silence as confirmation.

 

After several more minutes of thoughtful silence, Waylon cleared his throat. That didn’t work, so he said, “Miles,” in his classic ‘include me’ voice.

 

“Oh, right. So I think there could be a basis, but not from what you’ve been up to. Or, not only. He has almost no family; his mother died when he was eleven, and his father wound up getting killed in a hit-and-run when Gluskin was twenty-five. That left his remaining family count down to… huh. One. A Frederick Gluskin on his dad’s side of the family. Uncle, it looks like.”

 

Waylon looked from one side of the street to another, internally working with the information Miles just gave him. He couldn’t see it definitively adding up to anything, other than some stupid stereotypical shit.

 

“So he isn’t Norman Ba – shit!” Waylon started, dropping his phone and ducking low in his car.

 

Eddie Gluskin himself had appeared as if out of nowhere, the smooth lines of him walking steadily down Leadville’s main road.

 

Waylon’s air supply felt cut off, and he squeaked when he saw the tailor pause thoughtfully. For one horrifying moment, he thought he was going to be found. Waylon pictured himself being stared at hard through his windshield before Eddie charged over to his car, then opened his driver’s side door and pulled him out in some grand demand for explanation.

 

But that thought tapered off as Gluskin continued to move. Waylon’s teeth clicked together, and he forced himself to breathe.

 

God. So, maybe he was more afraid of the guy than he thought.

 

Waylon ran shaking fingers through his hair slowly and pushed himself a few inches up the seat. From the floor of his car, he could hear Miles’ laughter. In typical fashion, he rolled his eyes and waited until that bubbly giggle died down before holding the phone back to his ear.

 

“You’re a fucking riot, Way.” Miles said when he spoke again.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, brushing all of it off, “you were saying?”

 

“I was saying,” Miles agreed and dove back into his explanation, “that Gluskin had very few people in his life, and it got down to one before he was even able to, like, run for a prominent seat in government.

 Which leads me to the basis in DID. From the time he was a child to his late teens, he was described as being quiet and moody, almost never talking to anyone. But when he got older, he became a lot livelier, for some reason. He was, like, a member of the community.

 And then that changed, again. From the clubs he’s involved himself with, to his customer service reports – which were few and far between, granted – his behavior’s variated quite a bit. Which could be nothing, it could. Everyone has their ups and downs, and teenage years suck. But… after what you’re saying, and the bad vibes I’m getting from his home life…”

 

“But,” Waylon began, and he was immediately stopped by Miles.

 

“It’s all too far-fetched.” He finished, sounding upset with himself for entertaining the idea.

 

Waylon squinted, looking down the right side of the street again, waiting to see Gluskin come back into view.

 

“It’s not impossible,” he hedged impatiently.

 

“No. Then again, neither is bigfoot.” Miles replied.

 

He must have been lost in his thoughts once more, and if Miles was lost for longer than a couple minutes, Waylon would lose him for good. That couldn’t happen, right then. Waylon felt like he was in the middle of something, but he needed Miles to show him what it was.

 

Feeling suddenly desperate, he said, “What do I do?”

 

Miles was silent for only a handful of seconds before getting back to him.

 

“Wait for me, man. Get to a diner and order food. I know you didn’t eat anything today. Do that, and I’ll be over in an hour or so.” He instructed, lucid as he ever could have been.

 

Waylon murmured a quiet, ‘okay’ before hanging up. He dropped his phone in his lap and then waited a moment, his thoughts still jumbled. Maybe MPD – DID, whatever – was a far stretch, but there had to be other reasons for the missing people, for the behavior. For the eye thing, even.

 

There had to be.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got the chance to post!

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

 

“I had no choice. You were out. Besides, he was going where he wasn’t supposed to. You realize you have a scavenger on your hands.”

 

“Stop, just stop. Why aren’t you upstairs?”

 

There was a pause, and a beautifully golden light illuminated two dark faces, cast them in the same warmth. It was disconcerting, considering how unnatural one seemed to be near the other; a corpse was never supposed to meet the sun.

 

“You know I hate it, Eddie.”

 

Another pause.

 

“He doesn’t mean anything to me, so he means less than nothing to you. You understand that.”

 

“You mean the world to me, but the same can’t be true of you. You, who leaves me to deal with that–“

 

“Enough.”

 

“He’s a _slut_. I could see it in his eyes. All he wanted to do was ravage us. Is that the type of person you let into your life? Is that my replacement?”

 

“You didn’t take your medication at all….”

 

“I’m tired of being numb! All the time, nothing but numb! I could barely think to set that little whore straight. He left before I got the chance.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

One man was holding groceries, his hands close to squeezing the bag, wringing it of everything inside. Maybe this exact thing happened before, but he was so tired of it. His entire body wept with the effort of composure. He wanted desperately to beat the misery out of his life. Rhythmically, he tapped his fingers against rough brown paper.

 

The other was positioned in front of a darkened hall, his features settled into a deep and bitter snarl. They two looked almost the same; their hair, their arms, their legs, their clothes. Only their faces showed any difference at all.

 

“Betrayed… I’m only ever betrayed,”

 

“I don’t want to be the one to put you back to bed.”

 

With proper steel in his eyes, one said, “I invite you to try.”

 

 

 

It was a long night.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tired. Enjoy! We're very close to some real fun.

In the end, Miles didn’t come down to the diner. After Waylon’s brief but dramatic glimpse of Gluskin, the two knew that it would be bordering on suicidal to be seen together, their pasts considered. Gluskin would realize something was going on if he wasn’t already wary of Waylon.

  

As Waylon poked and prodded at the sandwich and fries in front of him, he shook his head; Gluskin hadn’t picked up on anything yet. But that was only because Waylon hadn’t done anything.

 

He swallowed loudly and shook his head, again. Disappointment and resignation warred in his head. He was determined only a little while ago to call a pot black, but there was still the truth of the matter in question. From the strange and clipped messages Waylon was getting on his phone from Miles, he was finally in contact with the record-keeper down at whatever nuthouse Eddie was admitted to before.

 

He would send things like, ‘no DID’ swiftly followed by a plethora of periods, a question mark, a frown. None of it made complete sense, even to Waylon, who’d spent so much time thinking he knew what was transpiring in his best friend’s murder board of a mind.

 

“I’m not cut out for this,” he muttered to himself as he counted money to lay down over top of his bill and bolt back to his hotel room.

 

The drive was quiet. The trek up to the third floor was quiet. His key entered the door in just the same fashion, and Waylon slipped under his covers straight after he had himself shut in. He was supposed to wait for Miles’ call, and then the two of them would let nightfall descend before landing themselves inside Gluskin’s shop. Eddie was supposed to be gone, a business owner’s meeting set up at the heart of the small town.

 

Leadville had strange priorities, Waylon decided, but far be it from him to balk at a clear gift.

 

In a fit of irritated fatigue, he slipped his phone out from underneath his uncomfortably clothed body and started flipping through current news stories. Since he’d had his phone’s news set to the local stations and updated widgets, only small-town bullshit was flashing before his eyes. He was halfway into a story about the anniversary of a mining accident that caused a few veterans to lose their lives and how it deeply affected those that remembered it, and the children of those veterans, before he blinked hard and continued scrolling.

 

A part of him seriously wondered how Miles managed it. There were so many things to focus on; so many cogs that ran the machine of suspicion, reasonable doubt. The act of looking in a world so cluttered was tiring enough.

 

Miles was voracious, though. He would never stop. Waylon wanted to sleep thinking about it, really. He felt his shoulders sag against the mattress, felt his hands bunch in the soft fabric of his pillows. It would be so easy to just….

 

 _Ring!_ Waylon bolted out of his comfortable position immediately and almost tipped himself off the bed. Shrilly, continuously, his phone trilled and trilled and trilled.

 

 _Alright_ , he thought. _No resolution, no rest_.

 

Waylon checked the caller ID this time, and was somewhat sad to see that it read MILES. He didn’t expect Eddie to call. He didn’t. But he wanted it.

 

“Hey man,” Miles began as Waylon finally set the phone to his ear , “time to talk.”

 

 

 

Miles and Waylon were outside Eddie’s shop four odd hours later. The sun had gone down around them, sticking to their shoulders, then their waists, then their thighs until finally, it laid itself to rest on another part of the world entirely.

 

They were both dressed similarly. Their clothes were dark, and their hands were filled with a camera each. They had business to conduct. Miles grinned a little at Waylon as he fished around in his pocket for a lock pick, and then started humming a seventies song to pass the time between being casual bystanders and law offenders.

 

“He’s harmless.” Miles had said in pure disbelief as he’d recounted what he’d been told.

 

He sounded so incredulous, which immediately tipped Waylon off. Eddie wasn’t supposed to be harmless. That’s not where his story truly led.

 

“Got off on good behavior, for fuck’s sake. Way, he was the prime suspect in _another_ string of murders. Fuckin’ Christ.”

 

From there, it went and went. Eddie had a history of abuse starting with his family. He was a troubled child for a reason; his parents were animals, and his extended family was no different at all. Eddie was supposed to have had a sibling, but they died in childbirth, alongside any hope of reprieve he may’ve been offered.

 

His mother committed suicide. His father was a drunk who was interested in children. Together, they lived on his uncle’s farm. The story got worse and worse as Miles spoke, and then came his first lick of suspicion; Eddie’s father’s car accident.  

 

Miles claimed it didn’t ‘feel right’, but he had no evidence to stake a claim, so he kept it at that. He, officially, no longer felt Eddie sported any kind of mental instability beyond something in the garden variety. In other words, he chalked it up to clean-cut psychopathy.

 

Waylon listened the entire time, and strung together helpful-enough sentences when he could, but his eyes were closed as he listened in, and his heart slowed as he processed everything. If any of it was true, if all of it was true, the only thing Waylon could say for sure was that Eddie lived an entirely tragic life before he was able to emancipate himself at sixteen years of age.

 

“It’s worse than I thought. This is pretty fucked up.” Miles had said, after a straight half-hour of explaining.

 

“But?” Waylon asked, waiting for another onslaught.

 

Instead of that, Miles sounded clear as day over the phone as he concluded, “We’re now cooking with possible motive. We got another piece of the puzzle. I have a lead on another character witness, and hell, I might even call Walker. He’d be able to help for damn sure. Now get out of bed, buddy. We got work to do.”

 

Which landed them there, right then, ten feet away from a dimly-glowing streetlamp and jimmying the lock of a dress store’s front door with practiced confidence.

 

“We’re in,” Miles whispered.

 

He swung the door open for Waylon and grinned triumphantly. By the looks of his eyes and the smell of his breath, he traded his circadian rhythm for caffeine. He looked a little twitchy, but Waylon could deal. He was twitchy, himself.

 

“Let’s go.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helpfully edited yet again by spaceowl.

Waylon felt his hands shaking underneath the door handle as he shut it quietly behind himself and Miles, and then shoved them both into his pockets. He squinted in the dim light of Eddie’s shop, and if he had only his sight to guide him, the best he would ever catch of Miles was an outline of his shoulders before he disappeared off to the right.

 

From there on out, Waylon was alone. He swallowed anxiously and started following. He tried to keep his footsteps as light as possible, despite being absolutely sure that there was no one beside the mannequins to look on at him or Miles.

 

Funnily enough, although Waylon didn’t think the shop could get any darker, when night fell, it was pitch black. The only light from within came from a singular bulb that led to that back office, and the fixture that encapsulated it was a heavy cream thing. The glass nearly choked every ray of bright.

 

It didn’t matter, though. Miles snapped from the back of the place a moment after they’d both gone inside, and from there, things felt easier. Waylon flinched when he first heard the noise, but his instinct was always to follow. He tripped over the carpet a couple times, and at a point, knocked over a row full of stockings.

 

“Shit,” he muttered.

 

“Move, Way,” he heard Miles call, his voice oddly muffled.

 

Waylon thought about all the places he hadn’t been able to see in this bridal store. He thought of the corners he’d never reached, and the doors he’d never opened, and the floor plan Miles never helpfully supplied, even when it was clear that Waylon was always the one to be going in, first. He wasn’t afraid of what he didn’t know; that wasn’t the issue. Waylon was clumsy to a fault and without his glasses, he was truly pathetic. Hence the stockings, and the five minutes it took him to finally see his friend.

 

He was in the back office. That office Waylon had been so curious about earlier. Miles’ hands had clearly roamed the place, because each folder, file, each piece of paper – it was all overturned.

 

When Waylon’s eyes were finally able to adjust, he understood why Miles’ voice had been muffled. The reporter was holding his phone in his mouth, his attention fully deposited on something small in the pinch of his fingertips.

 

“What’s that?” he asked.

 

It was usually stupid to ask, but Waylon was here for answers almost as much as Miles was at that point. He needed, if not vindication, then validation for his own suspicions.

 

“Jackpot, Park,” Miles murmured.

 

After a loaded moment, he handed Waylon the small object – a ring – and then waited for the reactions to start rolling in. Waylon looked at it very closely. Within the band itself, he saw a date engraved. Immediately, he felt sick.

 

“What is this?” he repeated.

 

“Victim number one, I’m pretty sure. Jessica Freedman.”

 

Before Waylon could think about it, the ring was out of his hands again. Miles set it in the crease of his shirt and began scrubbing at it furiously so that he could do away with their fingerprints. He set it back down carefully and pointed to two more rings that looked similar enough in size.

 

“Three out of the five victims were married, Way. All I gotta do is check the dates.”

 

Waylon wanted to understand what Miles was saying, but there was a ringing in his ears that was only getting louder. He supposed it must have been true. It must have been true that Eddie was a killer, and that he’d been a killer the whole time. Throughout their conversations and their plans. Waylon had to have known that in the back of his mind.

 

But a very big part of him was sure that Miles could have been off. Just once, he’d gone after the wrong man, and all they were doing in Leadville was crossing T’s and dotting I’s in the meantime.

 

“It could be a lost and found. This is a bridal shop,” he tried.

 

Miles’ eyes widened before his brows dipped down in disbelief. He seemed to be weighing the importance of Waylon’s sanity against the importance of finding everything they needed and getting the hell out. His eyes went from Waylon’s face back to the camera in his own hand. Waylon could understand; he knew he was being obtuse. He couldn’t stop.

 

“Go see where those other two doors lead, if you can. If they’re not locked.”

 

Waylon shook his head. “You know that’s what could have happened, right?”

 

It was one or the other; either Waylon had to be dealt with, or they had to keep on investigating. Miles clenched his jaw a little; Waylon could never have missed it. His phone lit them both up and their features looked washed out and striking against everything else. It was as if they existed in a void of white.

 

“Sure I do, Way,” Miles finally levelled tersely.

 

It was one of the most unfriendly things he’d ever said. Whether Waylon deserved it or not, he didn’t know. But he caught a glimpse of his friend feeling at the empty socket where his pointer finger used to be and knew he had to get back to it. Miles only ever acknowledged his injuries from Murkoff when he was unavoidably upset.

 

“Okay.”

 

Waylon nodded stiffly and walked back out of the office. He was in the open, again. He took his phone out of his pocket and lit up the screen. For some reason, he couldn’t dare to turn the flashlight on in the same way Miles had. It seemed to be too much of a giveaway. If there was anyone else lurking in this place – and it felt as though several eyes were on Waylon – they would spot him in a minute.

 

Or, even worse, Waylon would spot them, and he’d be frozen in place. Too stunned to move, too stunned to breathe. A deer in control of its own headlight.

 

Toward the front of the store, he did find those doors. They were harder to parse out in the daylight, but at night the hinges gleamed brightly when given a spotlight. Waylon pulled at the knob of one of them experimentally and wasn’t at all surprised to find it locked. He walked to the second one, fully expecting another dead end. To his surprise, it opened against him without delay.

 

He was standing at the bottom of a well-hidden staircase, and from the safety of the first floor, Waylon’s only choice was to go up. He looked backward, his lips forming around a sentence to throw at Miles about how he’d be right back, or how he had been successful. Neither felt right, and Waylon was too afraid to talk above a whisper.

 

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. He would go upstairs and find nothing but storage space, and then he would head right back down. They would have the pictures of the wedding bands, and that was all. Miles would be interested enough in that evidence. He would be all too happy to cross-reference the dates on those rings to the dates of the victim’s marriages, and then they would continue to plan from there. Depending on what was revealed.

 

The first step creaked madly, but the rest were blessedly quiet. Waylon felt his heart beating like a wild thing against his ribs. Although he’d been anxious throughout his life, there were very few occasions when he felt truly unnerved by the intensity of it.

 

The very last step revealed a narrow corridor that ended in another fork of doors. Waylon sighed and lifted his hands, only to drop them a second later. They smacked lightly against his thighs.

 

Christ. _Who the hell built a place like this?_ He distantly thought of H.H. Holmes’ murder castle. Waylon almost wished the hallway led to a dead-end. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel as though he was bound to shake apart from nerves alone.

 

After walking slowly and jaggedly forward, Waylon found that the first door he tried was opened. He pushed it all the way out, and immediately regretted it.

 

It was a bedroom. A small bedroom, filled with a bookshelf, a set of drawers, and exactly one double bed. None of this would have mattered all that much, except for the fact that Eddie Gluskin himself was in the center of the bed, his eyes flung open, and his entire body a line of live tension.

 

Waylon squawked and immediately fell backward into the hall. He felt behind himself to keep upright, and he knew it was time to run. He had to run; there was no other option. Eddie had seen him, and likewise, Waylon had seen Eddie. He compromised himself and Miles in one fail swoop. It was a true pity, because he’d been _so_ sure, so _completely_ sure that they were alone.

 

He’d even watched Eddie leave. What gave?

 

From inside the bedroom, Waylon thought he heard a whimper. His eyes bulged all the more. It was that noise, and his own reaction to it, that finally got Waylon moving. It was a damn shame that he went in the wrong direction.

 

“Eddie?” he heard himself say dimly.

 

Although the tailor’s eyes were open wide in shock, he wasn’t looking at Waylon. Waylon judged how badly he’d be injured if he stepped over the threshold of the bedroom once more, but it didn’t matter. Halfway into his deliberation, he went anyway. Waylon’s feet guided him to the edge of the bed and he watched, unblinking and unbreathing, as Eddie stayed stock still. He didn’t twitch, didn’t speak; only stared.

 

They were close; only feet apart. Waylon could see the strong fear etched deeply into every part of Eddie, and quickly he realized that the other could be experiencing some version of paralysis. His breath came in faster and shallower, because now there was guilt to accompany the rest. Waylon couldn’t wake Eddie up.

 

If he was in pain, there was nothing the programmer could do to make it stop.

 

Eddie made another noise. It was closer to a sob, then, and Waylon’s brow creased. He shook his head tightly. What kind of person would he be? What kind of person would he be if he left right then?

 

Waylon walked, again. Over to the side of the bed where Eddie was nearest. Their hands were inches apart. From the light of the street, Waylon could see that same foreign red in Eddie’s eyes and he wondered how painful it must have been.

 

“Eddie,” he whispered despite himself.

 

It was a shit show. Everything was a shit show. Best case scenario? Miles made it out in time to go to the PD and report Waylon’s murder, and the rest of the case would fall with it.

 

Stupid. He was being really stupid. He couldn’t do it.

 

As Waylon began to back up, Eddie’s hand struck out incredibly fast. One moment, he was petrified in sleep. The next, his eyes were filled with rage, and his fingers were digging excruciatingly into the soft flesh of Waylon’s neck.

 

Waylon reacted immediately, his blunt fingernails scraping against the tight muscles underneath Eddie’s skin.

 

Waylon felt his legs kick underneath him, an instinct that only made things worse. He was thrashing properly, but it was no use. Eddie was stronger, fiercer, and far more afraid.

 

“Miles,” Waylon choked.

 

“I knew,” Eddie whispered, his tone sure and clear. “I knew you would hurt him.”

 

Waylon fought to keep the black and blank spots out of his vision, but they were quick to cover Eddie’s eyes, and they were quick to cover the headboard of his bed. They roamed over everything. They grew bigger.

 

“Stop,” he breathed, but his voice was so small.

 

“Don’t struggle. He’ll be glad you’re gone. You little whore.”

 

Eddie brought Waylon in closer. It felt like they were destined to crash into each other. And then Waylon felt it. Soft lips held in a tight sneer claiming his own. Fuck. Jesus fuck. Jesus fuck, he was going to die.

 

“Whore,” Eddie repeated unkindly.

 

“Waylon!”

 

Christ almighty. Waylon closed his eyes immediately at the sound of Miles’ voice. His body went slack. After a moment, he felt the tight vice of Eddie’s hand slip, and Waylon hit the floor hard. He felt his ankle twist underneath him and cried out sharply before scooting backwards as far as he could from the bed.

 

In seconds, Miles was by his side.

 

“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ,” he was muttering, looking behind them both.

 

Eddie still hadn’t moved, and Waylon, through the haze of near-death, wondered exactly why. He glanced over Miles’ shoulder, expecting to find a huge, angry son of a bitch hurling himself toward them. Instead, he found that fearful man.

 

Like before. When he first found Eddie. His eyes were huge, and he was stuck to his spot.

 

“What the fuck?” Miles howled, standing.

 

He had a knife in his hands. Waylon wondered where that came from, but he had no breath to ask.

 

He was daring Eddie to move. Miles wanted something to happen. His body was laced with electric adrenaline, and he had enough conviction to do something. Waylon knew he did.

 

They were both in a bad situation. If Eddie moved, the only option for Miles would be to fight. And if, God forbid, Miles was hurt, Waylon knew he wouldn’t make it past Eddie. The two of them would be the next victims, left to rot on these floorboards. Helpless, hapless, gone. Waylon saw it all flashing before his bloodshot eyes. He didn’t know what to do. There was nothing he could do.

 

He shouldn’t have gone up the stairs.

 

Eddie whimpered again, and fell back so he was as far away from Miles as he could get.

 

“Don’t,” he pleaded with Miles.

 

It was time to run. It was time to run, to leave. They had to leave.

 

“Daddy, don’t.”

 

Waylon flinched. Had Eddie said those words? No one else would have. And Waylon was in his right mind. What exactly…?

 

“Shut up, Samuel,” Miles barked.

 

“Miles,” Waylon grit out.

 

“Stay put,” his friend continued, the tone of his voice hard.

 

Waylon looked between the two men with equal parts disbelief and fear. The world around him had stopped making sense. At this point, Waylon was convinced he had to be dreaming. He probably passed out, after he’d been choked. Maybe Miles was there and maybe he wasn’t, but he and Eddie weren’t having this conversation. Were they?  

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

With that, Waylon finally stood up. In reality or in his head, he didn’t know. Miles kept staring Eddie down until Waylon was behind him. Then, finally, they ran.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been a while!

Miles had never run so terribly in all his life. It was as though his legs were made of Jell-o and the world itself had started to turn and turn in clockwise motions until it was upside down. There was no possible way to keep up. He felt himself clutch hastily at his phone, at the picture he’d found in Eddie Gluskin’s office.

 

It was insane to think he could bring Waylon into his work and expect for either of them to be okay. It was downright wishful thinking. Miles had done it before, but never for a murder case. He’d known in the past when to leave well enough alone, and when to leave alone those which deserved to be well enough. For the longest time, he didn’t include himself in that bunch.

 

Miles was sure he was going to die young, at the hands of people he was trying to crucify. As he pushed himself farther and farther down the dark, deserted Leadville street, it was becoming clear that he’d been right.

 

Waylon was running in front of him. He was doing surprisingly well for someone who’d nearly been throttled to death a few minutes ago. And it was a few minutes. Miles could count on all the fingers he had left how much time they’d been given to keep living. It was great.

 

Leadville was cold, that night. The wind whipped their faces raw and red, kept Miles’ eyes stinging with tears.

 

They’d parked so far out of the way. Miles insisted; he’d told Waylon they wanted to be as safe as possible. But that was bullshit.

 

Miles could feel the burn in his calves, the fear that lanced through his heart as sharply as that knife he’d taken from a desk drawer. He was going to get himself killed if he kept going like this. He was going to get himself killed if he didn’t take a break from the truly dark, and the truly dangerous.

 

Worse, he was going to get his friend killed. The guilt was already starting to pile at Miles’ back. He would feel it claw his mind in two while he was in his hotel room, when their night finally ended. Whenever it would end.

 

God, when would it end?

 

“We have to be close, Way! Keep going!” he panted.

 

Waylon’s breathing was ragged and loud, even from the ten feet he had on Miles. But he lifted a visibly shaking hand to signify he understood.

 

At the hotel, Miles needed to save all this information. He needed to save, properly document, then verify. Did everything match? Were the rings truly belonging to three missing people? Did the women and the man meet their end at the hands of Eddie Gluskin? Miles felt himself blink faster, harder.

 

Was Eddie Gluskin guilty? Or was it Samuel, after all, that killed five people?

 

 _Samuel Gluskin, Eddie Gluskin: 1995_.

 

In a messy, unkempt print that felt almost hurried, Miles was given perhaps the most damning of evidences yet. Eddie Gluskin’s sibling did not die. No man could be in two places at once. Eddie had a brother; a twin.

 

Miles thought his car was in sight. He thought he could see the dark red of his jeep. He thought he could see the wheels that were close to bald, and the taillights he’d had replaced at least seven times after their repeated crowbarrings.

 

It felt as though he would be fine, for a fleeting moment.

 

His breath and motion were gone before he knew it, replaced by the strong and scarily large hands of a stranger. They grappled with Miles’ desperate screams; they quelled his fight, his flight.

 

Waylon! Waylon! Waylon!

 

Like his own heartbeat, Miles felt his friend’s name go through him. He cried, but it was muffled. The syllables and the sadness, the pure and hollowing fright, it was all trapped behind a warm and calloused palm.

 

Miles was dragged backward.

 

He felt himself stumble, and the idea to lash out quickly struck him. Miles threw a leg behind himself, and was surprised to meet flesh and bone. He heard an irritated grunt sound from behind him, and felt something heavy crash at the back of his head.

 

Fuck. Immediately, his vision blurred. The jeep… the jeep. It was so close. Wasn’t it?

 

And Waylon, in front of them still. Running. He must have stumbled, because his back was bent. He was using all effort to move.

 

Miles elbowed the person behind him, but felt hard muscles beneath his bone. They were impenetrable, and there would be no sudden gasp from – Samuel.

 

It must have been Samuel.

 

Miles felt himself return to the nights and days he’d spent trapped in Mount Massive. He felt the stinging blows from those inmates, and the incredibly strong grasp of a man who’d once worked security. Who wore chains as though they belonged to his bone structure.

 

There was no escaping either reality, not fully. Miles had to endure. He thought he was done, but it wasn’t true.

 

“Mmph,” he tried.

 

The name Samuel spilled from his mouth ungracefully. It sounded like nothing, but still, Miles knew the man heard him. They were incredibly close, his back glued to Gluskin’s front.

 

“You thought I cared about him?” Samuel hissed, sounding incredulous.

 

Miles breathed in and out fast. Air there, then gone. There, gone. There, gone. He hadn’t forgotten himself in Mount Massive. He remembered every putrid detail. But somehow, the feeling of smallness had evaded him until that very moment.

 

He was unable to move. His hands were grabbed and pinned behind him. Miles couldn’t speak; his mouth was covered. Miles couldn’t run; he was nailed to the ground beneath him by a man who dwarfed him if not in height, then in sheer mass.

 

“No.” He continued, his words whispered loudly in Miles’ ear. “No, not him. It wouldn’t be him, but you. My love. You’ll stay with me.”

 

Miles knew it was stupid to protest, or to react at all. Still, he shook his head as violently as he could in Samuel’s hold. Shockingly, it wasn’t so violent.

 

“You’ll stay with me,” Samuel repeated.

 

His lips were at the back of Miles’ scalp. He felt them move in his hair. He flinched.

 

Waylon. Waylon.

 

_Waylon._

 

Miles felt his eyes burn in their sockets as another harsh strike rendered him boneless in Samuel's arms. They were moving backward. Waylon... Miles couldn't see his friend, anymore. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promise I'll update more frequently.

Waylon made it to the mouth of the parking lot before he collapsed. His legs had been giving out on him, kneecaps refusing to bend, thighs screaming in agony. He hadn't gone on a run in well over six months, and now it felt like torture to retrain his muscles. 

 

Not torturous, but impossible. They refused to move. 

 

Sure, he was farther than Miles, but he always had been. He was on track in high school, in college. Miles was too busy going after the biggest conspiracies on campus to care much about sports, or group activities. 

 

Where was Miles, then? 

 

Waylon wanted to check, but his vision was going in big bursts of black. He felt himself try to stand, again. Just one more time. He was so close to the jeep, it was laughable. He felt his hands reach for the tires and feel nothing but gravel. He felt his legs shift in an effort to stand, but his feet wouldn't find the ground. He couldn't make all of himself work at the same time. Only individual parts, and only for a few seconds. Even those felt longer than life itself. 

 

No, his stamina was gone. It was gone. He would have to rely on Miles.... And where was Miles? 

 

 _He was coming,_ Waylon told himself. _They would be okay. Miles was strong enough, he could… he could…._

 

* * *

 

 

 

City hall was filled with life, that night. Eddie hadn’t realized, but the business owner’s meeting encouraged those with full families, with children, to invite those they loved. It boasted games and food and fun for all. Eddie had to bite his lip to keep from yelling, now, too caught up in his own sadness to have really focused on the event itself.

 

He’d never – he’d never wanted to leave his brother. He’d never wanted to steal a childhood from him, or to in turn have a life with someone he truly loved to die stillborn. It was impossible, that was all. Impossible to live with him, to bear the guilt of their family. It was impossible to breathe when all his brother wanted was for them both to climb into the same coffin and choke on the dirt and the wood and the carbon dioxide together. Finally together, forever.

 

Eddie clenched his jaw and shook his head. He hated that this was all he thought about. His mind ran in engrained circles. The only times he wasn’t thinking about his family was when he thought of Waylon. The small blond man that ran right into him on the sidewalk. Eddie smiled sadly. Even then, he thought of his family. It was inescapable.

 

The best thing to do would be to cancel their dinner. It would make the most sense. He didn’t know why he asked in the first place. If Samuel ever met Waylon, Eddie assured himself one or both would die. It was a twisted thing to assure himself of, but Samuel was inconsolable. He stopped taking his medicine. Eddie knew he had, because the bottle was empty. He’d flushed them. Or maybe he just hid them. Maybe he sold them. Maybe he kept them in his pockets.

 

Eddie already called the pharmacist, but the anti-psychotics always took longer than the rest of them. And it was harder and harder to convince himself that they were just for his brother. Eddie felt himself drag toward the insanity they shared. At the heart of their kinship, true insanity bred itself over and over. It was a terrifying thing. It was a tiring thing.

 

Anti-psychotics. He knew they would be coming sometime next week. He would have to get them as soon as they arrived. Eddie had the depression, the anxiety, the insomnia medications. They were in his car on the passenger side.

 

He was _sorry_. But he needed the air his brother would steal. He needed the air Waylon might offer.

 

As he felt himself nearing his own shop, Eddie grew weary. He felt it first in his legs, and then his stomach. His arms, his throat. His chest bloomed with the feeling. It opened and sang all the regretful hymns he crafted at night. When his brother screamed. When time moved so slowly Eddie was sure it had stopped all together.

 

Maybe he needed something. Maybe he needed something. Not Waylon. How _selfish_ of him to think some _stranger_ could be mean more than _family._ It rang in his head, if not in his ears. How dare he try to take himself from a pain to which he owed himself completely. How dare he look at Samuel with anything besides forgiveness.

 

There was nothing to do for it. He knew he wouldn’t cancel, and he knew inevitably that his brother would find out, in his right mind. He said he’d met Waylon, but that couldn’t have been true. Eddie would have gotten a call. He would have been told to fuck off. Or that he was a freak. A sick person. Samuel – was lying.

 

They looked so similar. Waylon could have been fooled, even. Eddie thought, darkly, about how easy that would be. Jealousy rose from him like salt off skin in ocean water. He didn’t know Waylon well enough to assume what he liked, what he didn’t like.

 

All he knew was his brother had fooled others before.

 

Eddie was only three blocks away from his shop when he saw it. A heap at the lip of a parking lot. A person? Eddie didn’t know. He lived in a small town, however geographically prestigious. The Father of his church ran a tight ship; he kept the place in line. There weren’t homeless, and there definitely weren’t delinquents. Who…?

 

Eddie walked quietly and quickly over to this stranger, this obvious outsider. For a terrifying moment, he thought it might have been another murder. He dropped down to asphalt and found the stranger’s pulse point, checked it. There was a beat. Slow in sleep, or in concussion, Eddie didn’t know. How could he know?

 

He didn’t want to injure the man, but… who was he? Eddie gently turned him over. Only enough so that he could see. So he could know for sure. It was – oh Jesus – Waylon? Eddie felt himself swallow in desperation, in anxiety. Waylon?

 

“Waylon?” Eddie said, shaking him insistently.

 

Waylon groaned, but was otherwise motionless.

 

Eddie waited for something else to happen, but nothing did. He knew the nearest hospital was thirty minutes away. Eddie’s car wasn’t far from either of them. He could run to it, drive back. He’d done it before. He could do it again.

 

Waylon was alone, here. He was on the street at almost midnight on his own. Maybe he had a car in the lot, but Eddie wouldn’t try to find a key. There was no reason, and he was well outside of any boundary that offered such a thing.

 

It was alright; Eddie could be quick. He looked at Waylon for a few more minutes, hands still splayed on his chest and shoulder. As much as he wanted, he couldn’t move him. Eddie didn’t know if Waylon was hurt. He didn’t know anything other than that he was wasting time.

 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

 

And he would.


	13. Chapter 13

Waylon woke up somewhere bright. For a second, he was afraid he’d see Eddie. He had the most vivid dream; of being carried from the parking lot to a truck, and then taken to… what was quickly looking like the place surrounding him. A hospital. But, as Waylon glanced from one corner of his room to another, he saw that he was alone. His heartbeat was racketing, machine displaying it with an annoying, continuous beep. Waylon thought beeps that only lasted seconds were taxing enough.

 

His head was killing him, but beyond that, he was nervous. Sure, there was no Eddie. That was… life. But there no Miles, either. He clenched his jaw, suddenly feeling lightheaded. Waylon hit the nurse’s button and stood up (after a couple false starts). He was hooked up to an IV, which he thought was a little dramatic, but it would be stupid to take the thing out. Waylon guessed.

 

He moved over to the bathroom. It was small and sterile, white with no hues or contrasts. Even the tiling was stark. Waylon had a dystopian feeling in his stomach. He swallowed, praying it would go down in time. He was fine. Miles was fine. Outside, even. Waiting for the green light, or maybe getting himself coffee. Waylon didn’t end up here on his own. That wasn’t possible. And Miles was the only one with… did he have the keys? Waylon thought about it, but he didn’t know.

 

The programmer bowed his head, focusing on getting a stream of water going in the sink. He was too wired to care about the temperature, so a piercing coldness was used on his hands, was pooled and thrown in his face. Waylon was fully awake.

 

He looked up at himself and cringed at what he saw. He wanted to say his neck was the worst of it, but it might not have been true. There were scratches up and down the left side of his face, like crosshatching. Waylon put his fingertips to them. They didn’t hurt, but their look was alarming. Worse than reality.

 

Waylon’s eyes were maybe the most unsettling part. They reminded him of Eddie’s; there was blood seeping in, clouding what once was. It wasn’t as bad, he didn’t think. Not _as_ bad, but bad. His throat was donned in splotchy red and purple. It looked… it looked like he was choked. There was no way around it.

 

Waylon looked for a moment longer. He thought of himself naked and planning dinner with a killer. That was a fun night; why couldn’t he go back? Maybe change a few things, even. Pack Miles’ shit when he was sleeping and push them both out of the city before dawn broke.

 

It wouldn’t’ve worked. But Miles. Miles, Miles, Miles. Where was he?

 

Waylon rooted through the clothes he came with in search of his phone, his wallet. He ripped straight through the plastic bag they were in and found them at the bottom. Hastily, he dialed Miles’ number and pressed ‘call’.

 

It rang for maybe ten seconds before the call was abruptly cancelled. Miles had his phone, but he wouldn’t answer. Why not? Waylon squinted down at the number and tried again. That time, the call went almost automatically to voicemail.

 

“What the fuck?” he whispered.

 

Waylon was glad he took the sensor off his finger, because he was sure by now it would sound like he was going into full cardiac arrest. He couldn’t get himself to calm down, but he didn’t really find himself wanting to. There was still no nurse coming through his door. Still no Miles. Waylon didn’t have to stay, technically. He was stable. Nothing was broken.

 

Fuck it. Shakily, he got himself back into the clothes he was wearing before. At points, he felt dizzy, but he was done fast enough.

 

Behind him, he heard the door open. Waylon waved whoever it was away.

 

“Yeah, I’m leaving, so,” he turned and abruptly shut his mouth.

 

What he saw wasn’t a nurse walking in to make sure he was alright. It wasn’t Miles smiling goofily and assuring him they were okay. No, it wasn’t them. It was Gluskin. _The man of the hour._ Waylon stumbled back, his ass hitting the side of the hospital bed. Shit. Shit, fuck. How was he supposed to get out? Waylon had to leave. He had to find Miles, find the main road out of this place. But he couldn’t move. His spine was locked up, and before him… before him, Eddie towered.

 

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t kill Waylon in the middle of a hospital, could he? And get out afterward? No. No, impossible.

 

“So, move.” Waylon tried.

 

His voice shook violently. He would have hated himself for it if he wasn’t busy trying to figure out what floor he was on and if it would kill him to dive out the window. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Miles’ reminded him hospital windows weren’t easy to break. Were impossible to open. Could Waylon disappear down a drain? Like IT?  

 

“Is this all?” Eddie asked.

 

He took what seemed to be a cautious step forward. Waylon flinched.

 

“All of what?” Waylon responded.

 

He wanted to be defiant, but all he felt was fear.

 

Eddie watched Waylon for another moment. His eyes raked, insistent and slow. They were as clear and blue as the day they’d met. Waylon frowned. They were crystal blue… no red.

 

“Is this all he did,” Eddie supplied tersely.

 

Waylon didn’t know why it took him so long to figure it out. No, he did know. He was in the middle of a real shit show, and Miles was no longer a guiding light. Sam. Sam, Eddie. Eddie, Sam. Red, no red. Cagey, kind. Up, down. Running, unconscious. Waylon felt his stomach lurch and reached back for support.

 

“I called a nurse,” he whispered.

 

Eddie looked as though he knew what that meant, but not even Waylon could be sure. His head was swimming once more. He barely understood the cold, tiled floor rising to meet his face before it happened again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't wanna be the guy with two unfinished fics on deck.

_If it’s news Samuel wants to cover, he has the personality and looks to make it happen_. That was Miles’ first thought as he was thrown onto the dank remains of a wooden chair. It creaked loudly, but they were both too far underground for any sound to matter. His second thought, although selfish, was that he’d wished Waylon had gone slower. If they were running together, they could have tried to fight Samuel as a pair.

 

Miles flinched as he thought about it. Waylon wasn’t a fighter. The ring of bruises around his neck was probably evidence enough. But if they’d been close to each other, if they were harder to take – if Miles was harder to take – he stopped. There wasn’t too much point to that train of thought. He and Waylon would have gone down together. Likely, Waylon would have been killed.

 

Samuel was after Miles.

 

_You thought I cared about him?_

 

Miles heard the words as though they were spoken a moment ago, and not hours. He felt the desperation in Samuel’s grasp, the strange devotion there that came from… what? Miles shook his head and snorted.

 

He was an idiot, sometimes. An idiot for using someone’s terrible past against them. An idiot for assuming an unassuming dress-maker was knocking the good people of Leadville down without some inconsolable twist. An idiot for being so careless. He’d broken and entered before, but never for long. And never on another person’s word.

 

Waylon hadn’t deserved to be there. That was running through and through Miles’ head, even as Samuel set various items up around them both. There was a dresser, strangely. A closed locker that’d seen a fair amount of damage. A… what looked like a mannequin, or what could have been a mannequin at some point. The head was ripped from its neck, and there were too many tears and odd holes in the thing to call it complete. Miles looked at it with a sick fascination. He wondered if Samuel’s other victims saw the same assortment of stuff.

 

Miles cleared his throat, stretching his hands which were cramped and bound at his back. His ankles were in the same predicament, and judging by the rope in Samuel’s grip, the fun wouldn’t end there.

 

“Nice place,” Miles said, his voice surprisingly steady.

 

Samuel jerked to a halt for a moment and almost looked at Miles before getting back to setting the room up. Lights were in place. Miles dared to look away from Samuel, to his far right. There was a – a camera. Jesus. Beyond that, a smell was coming off one of the walls; it paralleled death. Miles furrowed his brow and thought back to the missing reports he’d poured over. Could there have been another victim unaccounted for?

 

No. No, no one else. Besides himself, anyway.

 

“Jessica Freedman was in this chair, wasn’t she? And Harley Bates. And Andrew Morales.” He continued, unfazed.

 

That time, Samuel kept moving. He was smiling, the expression a parody of itself. The tightness running the width of his lips looked painful, like a bow strung too tight. His eyes were dark, fixed on one point or another. He hummed but the tune was either too old or too fictional for Miles to place.

 

Miles was about to go further, but his voice was drowned out by a loud and startling sound. The journalist’s eyes widened. For a moment, he was too afraid to speak, thinking he’d given himself away, and that the inmates were coming down on him.

 

But, no. There were no inmates. He wasn’t in ‘Massive, but Leadville.

 

He used to count in his head until the stench of shit and blood left him, and the hallucinations abated, but there was no escape from either reality for him when Samuel lumbered his way, his face set angrily.

 

It was his phone. Miles’ phone was ringing. Roughly, Samuel searched Miles. His hands dove into his front pockets, and coming up empty, Samuel reached underneath Miles to investigate his back. His breath was falling in hot waves across Miles’ cheek and neck. If he wasn’t so busy clenching his jaw shut, he might have said something. But Miles felt old terror strike him. He wouldn’t dare even breathe, too anxious to contemplate anything besides one moment and the next.

 

Samuel found the thing, after seconds that felt like years. He pressed ‘end call’, snarling down at the lit screen. It read ‘Waylon’. It must have.

 

Miles blinked hard and choked back his hysteria. He commanded himself to calm down. Samuel stood close. He brought the phone down to Miles’ level, nearly pressed it into his eyes.

 

“Congratulations,” he whispered, his tone mocking. “he’s still alive.”

 

Despite the irritation in Samuel’s voice, Miles felt relief. For the barest of seconds. From one eye-blink to the next, he was at ease. His friend was okay. Was calling him, looking for answers. That was the Waylon Miles knew. That was the friend he could count on. Waylon would save him. No matter what it took, he would find Miles, and together they would survive this.

 

“Now,” the twin began, bending to look at Miles clearly. “where were we?”

 

“Looking for the knife to cut me loose.” Miles replied.

 

He shook his hands for effect. The phone rang again. His head snapped back up, waiting for what Samuel would do. Whether he would end the call or accept. Maybe he would accept. He was a romantic, and a sadist. The two could align in Miles’ favor.

 

But they wouldn’t.

 

“Infernal device,” Samuel chastised.

 

He pressed end call again, and this time, he dropped the phone to the floor afterward. Miles followed it with his eyes. The screen was shattered. Samuel’s boot ground it into the concrete floor.

 

Miles nodded, too stunned to contest.

 

“What next?” he asked after several minutes of silence.

 

Samuel still smiled as he reached behind himself, as he pulled out a knife as long as his forearm, and he held it up to Miles’ neck.

 

“You mentioned… cutting loose.” Samuel purred.

 

It was jarring to see the guy go from passive set designer to whatever show he was putting on. Miles shrugged all the same.

 

“I mentioned a few names, too.”

 

Samuel recoiled immediately.

 

“Whores,” he spat, pacing the room two lengths.

 

“Victims. Your victims, right? I don’t think your brother’s the type.”

 

“The type.” Samuel repeated slowly. “You… have a type? You’re in luck. We’re the same.”

 

Miles couldn’t back far enough away from the sudden closeness he and Samuel shared. The killer pressed his knife into Miles again, but his other hand followed. It smoothed the investigator’s hair, matted with sweat as it was.

 

“What’s your type?” Miles asked, avoiding it all.

 

His pulse jumped rapidly, unerringly visible in his neck. Samuel glanced down at it. He looked tempted to slash Miles’ throat. Instead, he licked a hot stripe up the side.

 

Miles gasped, too shocked to keep himself in check.

“I’m looking for the One.” Samuel answered.

 

Miles felt his stomach lurch.

 

“Why wasn’t Harley the one?” he felt himself press.

 

There was no time to stop. Not when he was getting so much attention.

 

Samuel was tracing meaningless things into the side of Miles’ neck. Maybe he was engraving whatever lyrics might have been in that song he hummed. Maybe he was writing vows. Maybe it was absolute gibberish. Miles would never know.

 

“Are you jealous, darling? You shouldn’t be. I never would have chosen them over you. I never would have done that.”

 

Miles felt something snake around his thigh.

 

“No,” he bit back vomit, “I’m not jealous. Worried. What did they have that I don’t?”

 

Samuel glanced up at him as if they were finally speaking the same language. As soon as he’d been pressed into Miles, he was standing again, circling the chair.

 

That pervasive smell flooded Miles, once more. He looked to his far right and left. There was another mannequin on the right. A tripod to his left. A small digital camcorder sat on top, its light glowing with life.

 

Miles felt for the sockets in his hands and pressed until he felt pain. He kept looking at the tripod, but it wouldn’t fade from view. It was real. Samuel filmed his victims. Miles was just one more home movie.

 

“They were pretending.” Samuel murmured.

 

He started fidgeting with the random crap he set up. His hands were large, coated in scars. Miles wondered what happened to him to afford him so much pain, but from the medical records, he had more than half a mind to think he knew.

 

“They didn’t really love me. It was a lie.”

 

Miles thought about how that might have looked. He thought about the families he spoke with over the phone, and the pictures he’d seen of those lost in the local missing persons. How had they pretended, during their last days? Would their life and his life converge? Would Miles pretend? No. But survival was a tricky game. There were only so many characters he would be afforded.

 

For the moment, he wasn’t pretending.

 

For the moment, Miles was safe.


	15. Chapter 15

Waylon woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. He tried to move, but everything felt sore. His throat constricted around words of help. Across the room, Eddie sat quietly, his eyes shut. He could have been sleeping. Waylon didn’t care.

 

He threw his phone across the room. It hit the wall dangerously close to Eddie’s head. With a start, he woke too. He looked as panicked as Waylon felt.

 

Waylon smiled at him, all teeth, and lifted a hand to wave. Eddie looked to the door, then back at Waylon. He could have been thinking about if he should leave. He could have been thinking about what it meant that he stayed. Waylon almost wanted to ask what it took to convince the nurses to let him. At the last minute, he decided he didn’t give a shit.

 

The programmer raised his eyebrows at Eddie, daring him to move. It was eerily quiet between them. Compared to the meet cute Waylon forced, the phone conversation he believed in, and the doubt he harbored against his friend, this was jarringly unfamiliar. Waylon felt as though he’d never met this person in his life. He felt betrayed, defeated, resigned.

 

“Samuel,” he croaked.

 

Eddie’s nostrils flared. Briefly, he nodded to show his understanding.

 

Waylon pitched himself into a sitting position and started cutting the chords from his body one by one, then two by two. He was hooked up to a lot of monitors. Between one thing dropping and the next, Eddie had gotten up and come over to Waylon’s side.

 

Waylon looked at his feet instead of his face and shook his head.

 

“Back up.”

 

His voice was much rougher than when he woke up before. He could barely hear himself, let alone count on his words to carry. But a second later, Eddie was a safer distance from him, apologizing curtly.

 

It was a strange thing, to scrutinize himself as he was. Waylon had no idea how good he was to go. He didn’t even know where he should be going. He flexed his hands and felt the bones shift under his skin, knuckles cracking easily. Waylon tested his body all the way down to his legs, feeling eyes on him all the while. He tried to twist his ankles and yelped, feeling a dark, perpetual pain strike the surface.

 

Waylon looked down and noticed, for the first time, that he was wearing a splint.

 

“When you were sleeping,” Eddie supplied kindly.

 

When he was sleeping. Sure. Why not? Waylon shivered thinking about how long Eddie had been by his side. It should have been breaking some sort of law. For some reason, though, Waylon didn’t mind. Maybe it was that he didn’t have the energy.

 

“My phone go off at all?” he asked.

 

Waylon decided to chance it and stood up. His right leg was screaming in disbelief, rejecting the notion, bulleting pain through his system. Briefly, Waylon saw white. He tried to walk a step forward, but was pushed back into the cot. Eddie’s hand was on his chest, large as it ever was, insisting he lie back.

 

“I said back off.” Waylon said, bristling.

 

Eddie’s hand remained. After a moment, Waylon huffed, irritated, and relaxed. He couldn’t move either way. There wasn’t use in making things more difficult.

 

Waylon used his right foot to drive. He distantly thought about whether or not Uber would operate in such an isolated town. He grimaced and suspected not, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Briefly, he chastised himself for throwing the one thing he had to defend himself. He stood back up, and was pushed down again.

 

“No calls.” Eddie answered.

 

He still sounded apologetic. Waylon didn’t want to hear it.

 

“Does your brother have a phone?” he said, very quietly.

 

Eddie looked at him intently, his shoulders lined in tension. The whole of him was tense. He must have known how unstable his brother was, to some degree. He must have known how dangerous it was to have anybody step foot inside his dress shop. Waylon tried to get his breathing under control and finally made eye contact. He was sure he looked like nothing to Eddie. Some victim. Someone who got too close. Even if he was, that didn’t quite matter. Miles was the priority.

 

“I tried.” Eddie said. “He shut it off hours ago.”

 

The tailor looked upset, then.

 

If Samuel wasn’t answering his dear brother’s calls, it meant that he was either purposely ignoring him, or innocently sleeping. And since there were very few reasons why a man wouldn’t elaborate further on calling their brother when another man’s friend was missing, and had been missing for most likely a day, Waylon doubted Samuel was looking out for beauty sleep.

 

“Do better than tha-at.” Waylon ordered furiously.

 

He rose again, and this time Eddie didn’t fight against him. Waylon shoved his hand into his bag and started unceremoniously fitting his legs through his pants. He ripped off the hospital gown, revealed a pale stomach. No bruises there. Waylon dove into the bag again and found his shirt. He pushed until they were at a safe distance, again, and then he widened it, going for his phone which had landed on its face.

 

Waylon checked the screen to find it splinted but still functional.

 

“My brother’s unstable.” Eddie said, after several minutes passed.

 

“My friend’s missing.” Waylon retorted breathlessly.

 

He was working as hard as he could not to scream, figuring he needed to be running on pure adrenaline to stand being awake for this long. Waylon wished he was afraid. Now, all he felt was anger and fatigue. He sat down on the deceivingly hard chair Eddie gave up and started running through the app store, searching for any car service that could help him.

 

“Waylon, stop for a moment.” Eddie said, walking forward again.

 

Waylon downloaded Lyft and immediately started typing in his information.

 

“I have to explain before you go further.” He continued.

 

There was someone. Even here, in a town known for nothing but its height, there was a Lyft driver only twenty minutes out. If Waylon faked it well enough, he could just walk out. Defiantly, he started ripping himself free of the splint.

 

Strong hands were there again to stop him. Waylon smacked them away, but they held fast to the splint, somehow without stressing his injury. Waylon could see red dotting through the coarse white fabric and shook his head.

 

He couldn’t win.

 

“I’ll explain.” He said, harsh and mocking. “Five people are missing in a town of 2,500. The community’s close knit, but no one knows anything. You have a history that would make anyone suspicious. My friend Miles – tall, skinny, brown hair – met you. Looked into you. He knew it was you, but he didn’t have all the facts. Your brother.”

 

Waylon was pleading at the end of it.

 

Eddie said nothing.

 

“Your brother killed five people. Miles is missing. Miles makes six missing people.”

 

Waylon hadn’t realized how shaken he was until he felt something hot prick at the corner of his eyes. His vision blurred with the effort of composure, but it was all too much. The tears fell, and with it, so did Waylon’s strength. He was hopeless without Miles. He was groggy. He was ready to lay down and not get up until the week had passed in its entirety.

 

Miles was probably counting on him, and the best Waylon could do was fall asleep for a day(?) straight, unthinking. He was never worthy of Miles’ friendship, but that moment seemed to speak the volumes his fragile insecurity wouldn’t. Waylon shook with quiet sobs. In front of him, Eddie knelt and waited.

 

Waylon looked up, chest heaving, and drew a slicing motion across his neck.

 

“He’s a killer. Miles didn’t get it wrong.”

 

Miles never got it wrong.

 

Eddie pursed his lips before speaking. “He wants a family. Someone to call his own. Children. He thinks… he thought he couldn’t have it. He told me that. I didn’t think there was a reason to… worry.”

 

Waylon ducked his head and looked for the Lyft driver he’d found. The car was gone, as if it had never been there to begin with. Another trick.

 

“I don’t give a shit about that. Do you have a car?”

 

Eddie looked visibly surprised.

 

“Yes.”

 

Waylon nodded.

 

“It’s time to check out.”


	16. Chapter 16

“You didn’t want to hurt her.” He said, looking deceptively calm.

 

The knife in his brother’s hand was cold, sticky and slick with blood. It seemed to glitter underneath the attention of the basement’s lamp.

 

If he looked at it for long enough, he could imagine his own face in the glitter of red, and he could see his eyes, which used to be so beautiful, carved into those of stranger’s. His hands danced lightly, shaken, before letting the weapon clatter eerily to the floor.

 

“Did I – I did this?” his brother asked, stricken.

 

There was a brief pause before one of them nodded.

 

“You wanted to protect her. It was an accident. She wasn’t right for anyone if she wasn’t right for you.”

 

There was a dead woman in between them both. She was settled in what might have been sleep, if not for the smiling wound in her abdomen. Her eyes were open in a parody of life, still, unseeing. Her lips were parted, her nose white as bone. The rest of her was broken. Beyond repair. On a sad little finger, there was a wedding band, and a ring built with the most beautiful stone. It threw off sparks around her.

 

His heart lurched, and he got down on his knees to retrieve it.

 

“She belonged to someone else.” He moped.

 

One of them was growing tired. His patience always waned.

 

Unkindly, he threw a leg out to step on her hand. There was a wet crunch under his foot. His brother looked up slowly, a metallic promise gathered at his chest.

 

“She belongs to no one, now. But there’s always a chance to find the one you love most.”

 

The brother started to breathe rapidly. This crime was unforgivable. Had he known what he was doing? Had he seen the night as it unfolded?

 

“I love _you_.”

 

It was rote and immature.

 

There was another crunch, this time sounding from the woman’s face.

 

He felt bad, but there was no other way to drive the point home. His brother was too weak to understand anything softer, anything sensitive. They had minimal options.

 

“I can’t be here forever. I won’t.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cheers, mateys.

Eddie and Waylon wound up at his pickup a while later. They had to convince the staff to give him a prescription for something to ease the pain, had to convince them Waylon was okay. Had to get a couple aluminum crutches from a medical warehouse right next to the ER itself, and then had to – because Eddie insisted – grab something edible from the cafeteria. It was almost ten o’ clock when Waylon checked his phone, and he already felt as though he’d been up for days on end.

 

He would catch Eddie staring at him sometimes, but when he clenched his jaw and looked back, that would end.

 

Waylon, despite being more worn than the Chucks he was strapped in, still felt afraid. He rang Miles again and again, and each time it went right to voicemail. ‘ _Hey, this is Miles Upshur. If you have reasonable evidence to believe the Lochness Monster exists, leave a message. Otherwise, hang up!_ ’ Just before he’d hobbled into Eddie’s car with the man himself watching like a hawk all the while, Waylon pressed his mouth to the speaker of his phone and demanded Miles tell him he was okay. He told him they would be together again, soon. All the sappy stuff they would normally leave out.

 

Then, he pocketed the thing and made sure he wasn’t helped up into the passenger’s seat. From the looks of the hospital, and the area surrounding, they weren’t in Leadville anymore. Waylon squinted at the nearest sign and saw that they were sixty miles outside of city limits. That would normally give him a headache to think about hypothetically. As it was, though, he still had too many questions. And Eddie seemed like he wanted to give him some explanation.

 

“You’re telling me you had no idea he was like this?” he began, after some time spent steeling himself.

 

Eddie fixed him with a quick, sidelong look before focusing his attention on the road as they moved out of the parking lot. His hair was looking particularly severe, even though it was late. He himself looked good. And Waylon was sure he spent a couple days minimum doing nothing. No shower, no change of clothes. He must have eaten, because with his frame it was probably hard not to. He could only imagine….

 

Waylon cursed himself quietly for thinking about that, of all things, of all times. He was tired and paranoid. A little out of his mind. When his gaze lingered over Eddie’s arms, over his hands, he reminded himself: that was all it was.

 

“I know my brother’s sick.” He repeated. “He’s been sick since we were children.”

 

Waylon bit his lip and looked at the rain pounding down on the window in front of his face. Right. He almost forgot how bad Eddie had it when he was young. And since there was a sibling, after all – an identical sibling – Waylon doubted he could get out of any horrors his parents forced on them.

 

Miles’ sources were usually pretty thorough when they did a background check, but Waylon almost wished that he didn’t know what Eddie meant. He almost wished Miles kept it to himself. It felt like something he shouldn’t be allowed to know. A secret ugliness that haunted the people it affected. Waylon understood the nature of his friend’s work, he did. But that didn’t mean he was okay with that sort of snooping.

 

Well, not fully, anyway. Waylon thought about how much his leg hurt and got back on topic.

 

“I mean, five people are missing. Your PD doesn’t have any leads about who’s killing?”

 

A part of him almost felt like Miles, now. He was generally poor at interrogations. Waylon didn’t have a knack for it like Miles did. There never seemed to be that many questions in the world, and when they did surface in Waylon’s mind, he didn’t think himself willing or able to ask. A large part of him figured it wasn’t his information to be read in on. And since he hadn’t gone into investigative journaling, usually, it wouldn’t be.

 

“Why would they? As much as Father Martin would convince you otherwise, the Sheriff doesn’t give a damn about us.” Eddie tsked before turning left and leading them from the main road to a one-way street into thick forestry. “Sometimes I think he’s paid to let things slide.”

 

“Who’s your Sheriff?” Waylon asked immediately.

 

There was a brief silence while Eddie was kicking his windshield wipers into high gear and turning his brights on. No one else was coming down the road, as far as Waylon could see. It was okay.  

 

“His name is Jeremy Blaire. We went to high school together. He was a couple years below me.”

 

Waylon squinted. “Did he… I don’t know, seem like a bad apple?”

 

Eddie laughed, a full and vibrant sound in the gray truck. Waylon almost wanted to smile along with it. He would have liked the sound a lot if it wasn’t as jarring. They hung a sharp right, and Waylon clung onto the center of his seatbelt for some sort of support. He felt the backs of his eyes grow fuzzy with pain. Knew that he would have to take a pill, soon.

 

Maybe he wasn’t that much like Miles, after all. But he was getting answers. That counted for something.

 

“We didn’t know each other well. But he and Rick weren’t the best kids. Rick’s the Deputy. Rick Trager.”

 

Waylon made a mental note to look more into those two when he got better internet connection. Jeremy _Blaire_. Rick _Trager_.

 

“Okay. Uh, what about your brother?”

 

“What _about_ my brother?” Eddie snapped, suddenly.

 

Waylon swallowed. He didn’t really know at this point what he would do if Eddie wasn’t beside him. He seemed to be a wealth of information, and on top of that, he had access to all the places his brother – the probable killer – would be. He was invaluable. Waylon was sure in the back of his mind that it would help his situation if he was more docile. He remembered that he came off a certain way, in the beginning. And that Eddie had a visceral reaction to that kind of thing. Maybe it would be good to throw the disguise on, once more.  

 

“My friend might be – my friend needs help.” He said, gently. “Do you think he could have done all this?”

 

Eddie paused at a stoplight that materialized out of nowhere. The colors streamed through the window with a runniness that Waylon hadn’t remembered seeing since he was a child, though he was sure that couldn’t have been true. There was a mile marker not too far away from their car, but Waylon couldn’t read it through all the rain. He looked at Eddie, finally, and saw him looking back, his brow pulled down in concentration.

 

Waylon felt a strange chill run down his head to his neck, to his shoulders and beyond. His lips were parted; he was prepared to ask another question. Or maybe to apologize. He didn’t quite know where the edge was here, but it didn’t seem unbelievable to imagine he was skirting it.

 

They looked at each other for what felt like whole minutes, saying nothing, only observing. Even in the black of night, Waylon could see how light Eddie’s eyes were. That mysterious glow never died.

 

Then, like that, it was over. They sputtered back into motion.

 

“I don’t know how much your friend was able to find out about this town, but… it hasn’t been the easiest place to live. When we were children… life wasn’t easy on either of us, but it really wasn’t easy for Samuel. Our parents were absent. My brother needed more attention than most, and I did everything I could. But in the end, I wasn’t enough. When our parents died,” Eddie moved to cross himself. “we moved closer to town. I lied when we first met. The dress shop hasn’t been in our family for years, but it’s what… it’s what I like to believe.”

 

Waylon looked down at his hands for almost all of it, too shy and too hurt and too sad to meet Eddie’s eyes, if he ever looked. He felt bad for asking the question. Worse for feeling like he had to put on some sort of personality to get what he wanted. Eddie was probably just as shocked, just as afraid as Waylon was. He had no right to pretend otherwise. This wasn’t just his friend, but his family. And even after all the shit he and Miles had gone through, Waylon knew there would always be a difference between one and the other.

 

Quietly, he apologized. He reached a hand out to rub at Eddie’s arm. To his surprise, Eddie didn’t turn the comfort away. Waylon was glad for it. He wanted to do something, however small, to convey how poor he felt.

 

He would have said that that was enough, because the guilt of losing his friend and the guilt of knowing too much was already threatening to overtake him, but Eddie kept talking past the strange roughness in his voice. Waylon had no means to thank him. But he was grateful.

 

“Samuel is the vision behind the gowns.” He began, focusing then on his brother. “He’s sewn every piece of our inventory. He sleeps during the day and works savagely at night. He’s on medication. As far as I know, he’s been in one long routine for years.”

 

What would Miles ask? Waylon wondered over it for a moment before he came to a flimsy conclusion.

 

“Do you two ever see each other?”

 

“Rarely. He’s easily disappointed.”

 

Waylon squeezed his eyes shut. He felt anger bubble up from whatever core was keeping him going. Samuel. Samuel was easily disappointed, was he? Waylon thought about how he stole Miles, and how they couldn’t have been more than twenty feet apart. He hated it. He absolutely hated it.

 

“So you wouldn’t even know if he was out there cutting people up.” He said, incapable of keeping his hatred to himself.

 

If Eddie was startled by it, he didn’t let that show, instead opting to answer as honestly as he ever did.

 

“I would like to think I’d catch on at some point. But… again, I never thought he was capable.”

 

Waylon kept at it.

 

“Is there any place he goes when he’s not in your shop?” Because there must have been at least one or two places that Eddie knew about, no matter how separate their lives were.

 

Identical brothers were close, Waylon thought. Closer than most.

 

“It’s _our_ shop.” He corrected gently. “We have a church. Sometimes he goes back to the farm, but it’s been shut down since we were teenagers. if your friend is anywhere, darling, he’s probably there.”

 

“O-okay.” Waylon stammered, nearly forgetting that pet-name. “Shouldn’t we – let’s go there, first.”

 

Eddie glanced his way and smiled a little. However tall he was, however strong, Waylon felt he looked soft when he smiled. Softer than anyone he’d spoke to in a while. Softer than Lisa, even. And Lisa had been one of the loves of his life. She taught Waylon right from wrong, showed him how to go about a relationship in the first place. When they met, the two of them were just sophomores in college.

 

He smiled back, but to the memory that Lisa never liked Miles, while Eddie was taking days off work to ensure he was safe.

 

“We need to make a quick stop in town. For food, and clothes, and… maybe a pillow. You should get rest.” He argued.

 

Waylon huffed, his skin coloring. “Rest is the last thing I need right now.”

 

Eddie laughed again. It felt less out of place, this time.

 

“Your phone charger, then.”

 

Funnily enough, Waylon hadn’t thought about his phone once, throughout their entire drive back to town. And as they passed by familiar buildings on a familiar road, Waylon realized they were back in Leadville. He checked his percentage and realized Eddie was right. His battery was dying faster than he thought.

 

“Okay. Sure.” He smiled a little, genuinely bashful. “Uh, should we tell sheriff Blaire, anyway? Just so someone knows where we are?”

 

Eddie kept driving until they were on the backroad that lined all the main shops, no doubt directly behind his own. He turned it and the key sprung from the ignition.

 

“Would your friend do that?”

 

Waylon’s face clouded. “Miles.”

 

Eddie nodded, shifting so he faced Waylon head-on. He looked brutally serious, body lined in resolute resolve. Waylon clenched his jaw and looked steadily into Eddie’s eyes, ignoring that irrational, insistent urge to flirt.

 

“Yes.” He agreed. “Would Miles tell sheriff Blaire?”

 

He had a point.  


	18. Chapter 18

Waylon watched Eddie grab random shit. They were in the middle of a mom-and-pop, lights flickering above them, belated and soft. Waylon was walking on his bad leg every time he stopped thinking about the pain, and that had become a surprisingly frequent occurrence.

 

There was a reason why he’d joined Eddie, but as he looked at the Jackson Pollock tiling under his shoes, as he listened to the odd object being picked up and subsequently placed into their cart, Waylon found he no longer remembered.

 

Eddie’d offered to go in without him, initially. He’d been coming outside of his shop when he said it. Waylon looked at him, considering, body propped up gingerly against the bed of Eddie’s truck. It had to be old, the truck. Waylon could feel the indent of where the tire should be underneath his back. It was a dramatic style. Not one that would live up to modern vehicular standards.

 

“It wouldn’t be a problem,” he’d insisted, hauling an old military duffel full of clothes into the truck right behind Waylon.

 

“I’d rather come. I feel like I might fall asleep if I don’t.”

 

Eddie looked at him, a combination of amused and uncomprehending.

 

“That wouldn’t be so bad.” He’d replied.

 

It was already getting hard to keep his eyes open. Waylon had taken a couple pills, unaware how drowsy he’d be at the outset. If he’d read the bottle, if he’d planned ahead, Waylon would have chosen pain instead.

 

He held up a can of Monster, thinking again of Miles. When they were rooming together in college, Miles would school Waylon on the health risks behind energy drinks at large while he was shot-gunning three of them, broad and bright smile cracking his face in half. It was infuriatingly funny. Waylon grabbed a couple cans and then glanced back at Eddie. He was a little ways down the aisle, looking at snacks.

 

That was a good idea. Waylon walked over, tentative and flinching. He forgot the crutches in the car, thinking himself above them. He’d been wrong. It was evident with each step.

 

There were countless chips and candies before them, all lined up to look equally as menacing and alluring as possible. Waylon deliberated between KitKats and Oven-Baked Lays. His eyes roamed over to the Twizzlers. He thought of Miles, again. 

 

In a fit of irritation, Waylon grabbed a bag of pretzels. He hated pretzels. It was par for the course.

 

“I’m ready when you are.” He told Eddie.

 

Waylon was still unsure of this man. This hulking form that had an evil twin, had a little dress shop. Had a violent and criminal history. Had a bad history, in general. It was easy for Waylon to tell himself he needed to cooperate with Eddie Gluskin to get from point A to point B, but when he was this tired, when he was this upset, that seemed like an easy way of saying he was too weak to figure everything out alone, like Miles would.

 

Waylon couldn’t stop himself from comparing and comparing and comparing. Miles had suffered far more than Waylon. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted to, but all the same. There was a lot to be said for the two of them. For how different they were. Miles wanted Waylon’s company for this investigation, but it was supposed to be a quick thing. He would be the bait, then he’d get out.

 

Waylon never asked, but Miles had to have planned past that.

 

What would have happened, if Waylon went on that date with Eddie? Would Miles have been able to sneak into the dress shop without a hitch? Would they have been through with the case already, having found what Miles needed? The answer was a simple no. Nothing in life would be that easy.

 

He and Eddie checked out and got back on the road, food and energy drinks and water between them.

 

When Waylon closed his eyes to rest, he hated himself more than ever.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changing things up a little. Hope everyone's having a good time in hell. I know I am!

Waylon and Eddie take the open road until there’s no open road to take. The asphalt disintegrates into gravel which disintegrates into dirt. They talk some on the way up, but for the most part it’s Waylon trying not to drool on the old leather seats of Eddie’s truck, and Eddie working his jaw into a steady grind thinking about how insane his brother is, and how he should have seen it sooner. They stop off at another gas station, but that’s just so that Waylon can throw up the pills he swallowed. It turns out they don’t sit right with him.

 

Or maybe that’s the beef jerky he keeps shoving into his mouth to give his teeth something to do, and to give his tongue something to do. No talking. No chewing on the inside of his cheeks. Waylon’s eyes scan over each new sign they see, but none of them are familiar to him. He was from Virginia. Never been farther than Illinois, really. That was one of the funnier parts of all of this. Waylon didn’t like traveling. He thought it was bad for him; knew it gave him too much anxiety, too many concerns.

 

He’d catch himself smoothing out the flight plans he drew up repeatedly, up and down the length of his lap like a good memory. Miles would eventually shush his roaming hands. They would go back to silence until, inevitably, Waylon started up again.

 

“We’re close.” Eddie said as they forked off into yet another set of backroads.

 

 _Thank god_ , Waylon thought. He nodded to show that he understood, to show he was alive and still thinking despite the many hours that passed them by in complete silence. Waylon wondered over Sheriff Blaire and the rest of those characters in Leadville. He wondered if they knew their tailor had a crazy twin brother who was taking people from their homes and wives and husbands. Ripping families right down the middle.

 

They probably didn’t. Either that, or they didn’t want to look. Waylon didn’t know which was worse. Ignorance or passivity? To Miles, it would be both, one stacked on top of the other. His job was to look at things no one else would dare to. To follow leads everyone shied away from. If he ever saw this Jeremy guy, chances are they wouldn’t get along. Waylon could only guess about the deputy.

 

He cracked open an energy drink and chugged it straight down to the bottom, then set its empty shell back in the main divider between himself and Eddie. Waylon looked at Eddie for a while. On and off, never searching. Just looking.

 

Once, Eddie stared back. He seemed to want something, but he was not going to ask. And Waylon knew better than to offer, being in his state. Still, when they got to a stoplight, Eddie reached over to squeeze at his knee. Waylon didn’t know if he was trying to be reassuring or seductive, but to both his answer was: yeah, right.

 

Eddie pulled up to an old, dilapidated farm around six or seven in the morning the next day. From the outside, it looked relatively livable. There was a well out front the size of a small room, and where it led, Waylon had no idea. He peered down the hole while they were walking, but all he seemed to see were leaves looking back at him from the very surface, green and orange and brown.

 

Waylon stuck closer to Eddie, but in the end, he went too slow. His crutches were left behind in the car. And when the two of them heard what sounded like screaming, Eddie bolted toward a pair of twin doors laid almost completely to rest on the earth. A cellar, Waylon thought. Or a basement. Something creepy.

 

He held his breath thinking of Samuel Gluskin. The brutish son of a bitch that twisted his neck raw, broke his ankle. Kidnapped his best friend. Waylon didn’t like this place at all. He didn’t like that there were crows lining the rooftops. Didn’t like that there was an overcast sky when the news reports boasted sunshine. Didn’t like it, period. Waylon found that if he never came back to Colorado ever again, he would be a happy man. A saner man.

 

“Eddie?” He had called, limping jagged and slow toward the doors.

 

Waylon stopped short when he heard the makings of a scuffle, and then a harsh snapping sound. His eyes widened, and he lurched forward faster. It took more effort. His leg was screaming, but Waylon could hardly care.

 

“Miles?” Waylon shrilled, at the lip of the basement.

 

There was a great big pause before Waylon heard anything.

 

“I’m down here!” A familiar voice yelled.

 

And he was. Eddie was in the center of the room, blood dripping from his over-large hands. At his feet, there laid a crumpled carbon copy of the tailor. He was wearing clothes too similar to be coincidental, and his hair was combed straight back, the amount of gel running through it keeping it from flopping over into cold, lifeless eyes.

 

Waylon gasped, clamped a hand over his mouth. He saw Miles in the mix, dragging himself up from off the ground. His hands were dirty, and his face was a goddamned mess. His right eye was swollen to the point of blindness. Waylon could see a split in his lips, both bottom and top. His nose was crusted over with dried blood.

 

Waylon had never been happier to see anyone in his entire life.

 

Eddie, heaving and distraught, drove both Miles and Waylon back to Leadville where he dropped them off at Miles’ hotel and didn’t ask any further questions. He seemed to shut down after seeing his brother die. Or, rather, killing him. Waylon wanted to say something before they parted ways, but when he was about to, Eddie stared at him so intensely Waylon wondered whether he knew. Any of it; all of it. They stood across from each other for as long as time would allow, and then Eddie turned his back and marched out of the lobby.

 

“Get ice on that as soon as possible. Leave tonight.” Eddie muttered over his shoulder.

 

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Miles had said, feeling at the raw skin in his mouth with his tongue.

 

Waylon shook his head, clutching his one crutch like a lifeline, Miles supported safely on the other side. They made their way up to his room to find everything the same as it had been. Waylon waited a little, actually going to get ice and pressing it to Miles’ skin. For a while, they sat just like that. Waylon touched Miles if only to make sure he was still there, and Miles wheezed through his stuffed nose, his own hands fisting into the fabric of Waylon’s shirt.

 

“You look like shit.” Waylon said after he took the cloth back from Miles’ face and it came away red.

 

“I feel a lot better.” Miles said.

 

“Really?”

 

“No.”

 

Miles took a shower while Waylon packed all his shit up. He checked his phone when he had time, but there were no new messages. And certainly not from Eddie Gluskin. Waylon thought of sending him a message on his own, but quickly thought better of it. The weird friendship they had in the car was nice.

 

Maybe it would be best if they kept it at that.

 

“I’m done with America, Way.” Miles said as he came out of the shower.

 

Steam poured from behind him, making it look like he controlled water itself. Waylon smiled weakly. He’d been so torn up this entire time, and Miles was just fine. Injured, probably traumatized beyond measure, but fine.

 

Without hesitation, Waylon stepped into Miles’ arms. Wet with a towel around his waist and all. Miles had squawked, but he’d returned the gesture with equal fervor.

 

“Where are we going, instead?” Waylon asked, already knowing the hair-brained answer he would receive.

 

Miles backed up just far enough to look at Waylon and grinned, all his teeth red with blood.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :)

[3:01 AM] Hey, honey. M

 

[3:08 AM] Bad time. Working. C

 

[3:08 AM] **IMG attached**  M

 

[3:09 AM] How? C

 

[3:20 AM] Leadville. Not my best work. M

 

[3:21 AM] Where are you now? C

 

[3:23 AM] Still here. Figured I should type the rest of the story out until the hotel takes their key back and the sun comes up. M

 

[3:25 AM] I messaged to say I’m gonna be out of range for a while. Maybe a long while. I made a mistake, and you know it’s bad too, now, because I never own up to my faults. That’s usually left to the rational adults. M

 

[3:27 AM] I wanted to say that I miss you and I hope your recovery is still going well. Last I heard, the skin grafts were accepted nicely. Nurse Sherry says you’ve been sweeter, too. M

 

[3:34 AM] She’s a good person. C

 

[3:35 AM] Yeah, Chris. So are you. I’m sorry I’m dropping all this on you without any real notice. I wish I could see you. It would be very nice after all this bullshit, haha. M

 

[3:35 AM] Come to me. C

 

[3:40 AM] I don’t think I can. M

 

[3:40 AM] Come to me, Miles. C

 

[3:45 AM] I can’t. But I’m still going to check on you, and we’ll keep in touch no matter where I end up. But hey, I’m sure you remember where I wanted to go. M

 

[3:46 AM] Take care of yourself while I’m gone, okay? No funny business. M

 

[3:58 AM] I will miss you. C

 

[4:00 AM] Yeah. Right back at you. Remember what I said about the funny business. If you ever need me, I’m always here. M

 

[4:09 AM] Chris? M

 

[4:10 AM] Yes? C

 

[4:11 AM] Thank you. For what you did all the way back then. I don’t think I ever said thank you. M  
  


[4:13 AM] Okay. Goodnight. M

 

[4:15 AM] Goodnight little one. C

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweating smiling emoji*

Waylon remembered in the car when he and Eddie were trying to figure out how much Vicodin he should be swallowing down that they both wished they could be somewhere else. Not just when it came to the shit they were neck-deep in, but for life, too. Waylon never felt like he fit in back home. Even when he moved out to a bigger city with more people, more eccentric freaks, he still felt lost. There was an aching feeling in the heart of him. Inside of each bone, like a rhythm; an alarm, and it let Waylon know that he should have been elsewhere.

 

While they hadn’t gone into that much detail in the car, Eddie expressed something similar. His hands twitched when he spoke, though. And he had to check the speedometer when Waylon’s eyes were averted to make sure he hadn’t gotten so wrapped up in his past that he began to forget the future. Eddie scrubbed the memory of his past from his mind with a wire brush. He didn’t play games; the demons had a place in a hole in the ground, along with the bodies of his uncle and father, respectively. He wouldn’t give his family his attention anymore.

 

Not unless they were Samuel, but even that had changed.

 

They bonded on that. On being outcasts then and now. Eddie and Waylon exchanged uneasy smiles as they said it, lips curving in forgiveness and recognition, hard-fought and hard-won.

 

It’s what Waylon thought about after he’d gasped himself awake clawing at his neck and wishing for more, more, more breath. He’d felt choked. As if he was hung in the middle of an iron sky without a judge, jury, or executioner to double-check whether his soul should truly be damned.

 

It still hurt to breathe.

 

Miles slept soundly, from what Waylon could tell. He walked over to his friend’s queen bed and pressed thinly shaking fingers to the middle of his neck and found a steady, strong pulse. Waylon couldn’t have seen, because it was far too dark, but he’d pressed down into a newly blooming bruise. Almost as if he wanted to kill it before it grew.

 

He would, maybe. But then, Waylon wouldn’t want to stop there. He’d want to keep his hands on his friend’s body until every wound healed, and time rewound, and the world righted itself.

 

Waylon left Miles behind to get into his car in the parking lot and bring his head forward until it pressed into the horn of his wheel. If he pressed a little harder, there would be a blaring noise. Angry and disruptive and, frankly, disturbing at one in the morning in a town as quiet as Leadville.

 

The car was in drive before Waylon could talk himself out of it. He drove steadily through the small streets. Waylon halted at a small string of stoplights and waited for pedestrians that wouldn’t cross. In his mind everything was lively. Like in Denver, and in his hometown before. In the places where Waylon had traveled for work and been apart from his family. Everywhere. Each and every place that he remembered overlapped and sang to him in vision and in feeling. There they were, the ones who weren’t touched by the tragedy he knew. There they were, the ones who weren’t forever indebted to a man they’d hardly known. And then, when green bathed the hood of Waylon’s car, they were gone.

 

Most every shop’s front window was dark, blinds and drapes drawn. It was late. It was late, so Waylon understood. He parked parallel to the tailor’s place and drummed his thumbs on his thighs. Thinking.

 

He didn’t come to Eddie’s place because he felt he owed it. That wasn’t the entire reason. Waylon owed Miles more than he owed Eddie, and he owed himself the most by staying alive through the entire shit show. It wasn’t guilt in that sense. But, fuck.

 

Samuel was dead.

 

“Eddie’s brother’s dead,” Waylon told himself without inflection.

 

His phone burned a hole in his pocket, but Waylon doubted he needed to use it. Eddie was awake.

 

He got out and walked the deep, dark road he’d been chased down. Waylon kept his hands open at his sides. When he knocked on the front door, he knocked with the knuckle of his middle finger, hard enough to bruise.

 

There wasn’t any movement for long minutes.

 

Then Waylon saw light flood through the back of the store to cast dilapidated glow on the front hall. For the smallest of seconds, Waylon was terrified thinking it would be Samuel instead. That maybe, somehow, he’d survived. And maybe, somehow, he’d learned to walk slow enough to confuse. But… no. Waylon clenched his jaw and stood back. No.

 

“No,” Waylon murmured.

 

It was drowned by the accommodating scrape of one man opening his door for another.

 

Interestingly, Eddie didn’t really speak. Not in the beginning. His eyes flashed an eerie blue as he body-checked Waylon. Eddie’s back was bowed. His neck was bent forward, and his arms were fastened around the broad expanse of his chest. He was still wearing formal clothing.

 

White button-up. Slacks. No tie, no suit jacket. His shoes practically sparkled under the latent attention of Colorado’s moon.

 

They should have had a lot to say to each other. There should have been years of conversation bleeding from their mouths, and the agony of it should have brought them closer than the moon to the sun during solar eclipse. Eddie looked so tired. Waylon knew tired, and he knew sad. He knew. He knew, even if he couldn’t wade into Eddie’s degree of tired and sad. He could still be there.

 

He wanted to be there. Waylon didn’t owe Eddie a thing, but god, how he wanted to.

 

Before Waylon could think of a(n empty) platitude, Eddie stepped aside to let him through. Waylon breathed out deeply, feeling like black smoke emptied from his lungs instead of stale oxygen, and trudged clumsily past.


	22. HIATUS

Hey guys. This won't be the coolest chapter update, but it's been weighing on my mind for a while. I'm putting this story on indefinite hiatus. I think about it again and again and it irritates me. I feel like it was all written by a child. Which is kind of true in a way. I created this story because I was inspired by other things I'd read and the game itself and thought that I should start writing regularly in order to develop flow and experience. In the beginning it was easy, but as the chapters got up in number I started to get anxious. I never thought before I wrote a chapter. Never story-boarded, never guessed at an ending for this story. I lived in the moment and wrote in the moment. And oh, boy, does it show. 

The work's kind of a mess. The plot lines are discombobulated, characters aren't that fleshed out, roads that were clear and decent left untraveled. I wanted to write a crack story that exhibited how good my writing was, but in the end I wound up exposing my narrative weaknesses and general internal dissatisfaction and insecurity more than anything else. And that's not what I aim for when I write! 

Maybe I'll think about reworking this story and starting all over again, but until that point comes I'm going to give official notice; expect radio silence. 

Thank you to everyone who's given kudos or kind comments! I appreciate them all. I have a lot of other work dedicated to these clowns so if you're interested, I'd recommend those. 

<3


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